


Moonrise

by Jadesfire



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-25
Updated: 2010-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1969, Torchwood House, Scotland. When Jack is sent to investigate a series of thefts, he finds that the history of the House is not as past as he'd thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonrise

**Author's Note:**

> This story fits into my _Sic Transit Tempus_ series, and contains references to the Doctor Who episode _Tooth and Claw_ but can easily be read without knowledge of them.

**Moonrise**

**Part One**

_We are here and it is now. Further than that all human knowledge is moonshine_.  
H. L. Mencken

The argument had started three days ago in London. There had been a brief break in hostilities on the train from Newcastle to Edinburgh, when they no longer had a carriage to themselves, but the fragile peace had been broken as soon as they picked up the car and resumed the journey. Hugh had declined Jack's offer to share the driving, which Jack suspected had more to do with the glass panel separating the front and back of the car than anything else.

"It's just stupid," Jack said again, really not caring how rude he was being at this point.

"Jack." Despite the constant bickering, Jock was still only sounding weary, not murderous. Jack would have been impressed if he wasn't so annoyed.

"You haven't bothered to deny it."

"Because I agree with you. But you know that we don't have the staff, and I don't see you volunteering for the post."

"I have better things to do with my time than stand guard on a half-empty house."

"So do most people!"

Subsiding a little, Jack looked out of the window, watching the endless moorland roll past. "I don't see why it has to be us," he said, although by now he was starting to feel like a broken record. It felt like coming home, in all the wrong ways. Too many memories and associations, too much history loaded into one place. He shifted on the seat, trying not to think about how he'd left all those years ago, with one of his staff dead and the others probably traumatised for life. Torchwood did that to people.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to look away, staring at the back of Hugh's head as he negotiated the bumpy road. Hugh, at least, seemed to have come out of the experience unscathed, although it was always hard to tell. The man could have given lessons in inscrutability. Jock was easier to read, exuding an air of calm resignation. He'd been there for the end of the whole disastrous affair and if he'd been nervous about returning to a place where ghosts had tried to take over the living, Jack would know it.

Which left Jack to be jumpy and uncomfortable all by himself. And that just wasn't fair. He shifted again, turning to face Jock and opening his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a glare that even he didn't want to argue with. Jock didn't often lose his temper, but Jack had been pushing his luck for three days. Perhaps it was time to back off a little.

"How much further to the village?" he asked, glancing back out at the scenery, which hadn't significantly changed in the last two hours. Rolling grasslands, only interrupted by the occasional clump of heather, stretched towards the horizon, finally ending in distant blue hills.

"I have no idea." Leaning forwards, Jock slid back the glass partition and repeated the question to Hugh.

"About an hour or so, I would have thought, sir."

"Anyone want to play I-spy?" Jack asked. In the rear view mirror, he saw Hugh roll his eyes.

"Jack, if you can see anything other than grass, heather and the occasional rabbit, go ahead." Jock settled back in his seat, also looking out of the window. "Just don't expect the rest of us to play."

"You drag me all the way to the edge of civilisation, with nothing for entertainment..."

"You could reread the files."

"Boy, you're a real party animal, aren't you?"

Jock tutted. "We're working, Jack."

"Are you ever not working?"

In front of them, without taking his eyes off the road, Hugh reached back and closed the glass partition again.

* * *

When he'd been in charge of Torchwood House, Jack had never really taken much time to come down to the village. He'd known the names of everyone in the little cluster of houses, of course, and he and the pub landlord had exchanged pleasantries a few times, but getting to know the locals had never been his top priority. As he climbed out of the car, stretching until his back popped, he decided that was probably a good thing. They'd probably heard about strange goings on up at the big house, but they wouldn't necessarily recognise his face.

"Where are we staying, Jones?" Jock asked, lifting his arms and grimacing. Four hours along bumpy roads hadn't been kind on any of them.

"The pub, sir." Of course, Hugh looked more or less as he always did, his only concession to the discomfort of the journey being to undo his jacket, which he was now buttoning up again as he went round to retrieve the bags from the boot of the car. "There are a couple of rooms, and I'm assured they're clean, if a little basic."

"Anything's better than the house," Jack said, trying to untangle the arms of his coat. "It'll be freezing up there."

Jock raised an eyebrow. "It's June."

"Like I said, freezing." Finally managing to get his coat on, Jack went to give Hugh a hand. "I lived there, remember?"

Opening his mouth as if to protest, Jock saw the look on Jack's face and stopped, giving him a wry smile. "Fair point."

The rooms were pretty much as advertised, although there were only two of them. Jack completely failed to suppress his grin when Jock saw the double bed. Catching Hugh's eye, Jack dropped his bags and clapped his hands together.

"So," he said brightly, "who's sleeping in my bed?"

Jock looked nervously round the room, but there was a distinct lack of a sofa or other furniture, except for a rather rickety chest of drawers. The carpet was certainly too thin to make sleeping on the floor an attractive option, and Jack doubted there was a spare blanket anyway.

"Er..." Jock began, and really, Jack was starting to feel cruel.

"Don't worry," he said, holding up a placating hand. "You're more than welcome to share – it'll probably be warmer – but there's next door if you'd rather."

"Er..." Jock said again, glancing at Hugh who gave him a reassuring smile.

"Officer's privilege, sir. I'll find you an extra blanket."

"Right." Taking his own bag from Hugh, Jock gave Jack a final, nervous look, then glanced at his watch. "It'll be dark soon, and if it's all the same to you, I'd rather leave heading up to the house for the morning."

"No arguments here," Jack agreed, pulling his coat off and looking for somewhere to put it. "That place is creepy enough in the light."

"The landlord said he could give us dinner, sir." Like a conjurer, Hugh had produced a hanger from somewhere and took Jack's coat from him. "For a consideration, of course."

"Of course." Watching the two of them with a slightly odd look on his face, Jock added, "We'll convene in the bar at seven, then?"

"If there's food, I'm there." Jack grinned. "As long as we don't have to dress for dinner."

"I think we'll make allowances this once."

Jack waited until Jock had left for his room to turn to Hugh. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I think the Major is just made a little...uncomfortable by some subjects." Hugh was sorting shirts into the chest of drawers, keeping his back to Jack. "Although he displays a remarkable level of tolerance, considering."

Giving the bed an experimental prod, Jack titled his head. "Are you telling me to back off?"

"I'm saying that you might exercise some uncharacteristic discretion, and make his job easier for once." With the shirts safely stowed away, Hugh made a start on the rest of the luggage. "I'm used to you. The Major's a little more-"

"Sheltered?"

"Unaccustomed." Hugh finally turned to face Jack, his face serious. "You're not always as considerate as you could be."

Giving in, Jack dropped onto the bed, wincing at the squeaks. "Give me a chance, Hugh. This is a miserable enough job. I've got to find my fun from somewhere."

"Just not at the Major's expense."

"Alright." Jack waved a hand, falling back as Hugh came over to stand by the side of the bed. "You've made your point." He glared up at his friend. "And what are you doing here, anyway? Isn't Cardiff going to fall into the sea or something without you?"

"I hope not. My staff know what they're doing. Mostly." Loosening his tie a little, a sure sign of weariness, Hugh shrugged. "When the Major told me you were coming on this assignment I volunteered."

From Jack's angle on the bed, Hugh's face was oddly distorted, the expression out of proportion and strangely shadowed. "Because Torchwood doesn't have enough competent drivers?"

"Because I'm not sure how many of them would be able to stand being trapped in a car with you when you're-"

"Sulking?"

Hugh's face twisted as he returned Jack's knowing smile. "Distracted." He took the bags from the end of the bed, depositing them neatly by the chest of drawers before coming over to sit next to Jack, who shifted over to make room. "I know you hate this place," he said softly.

Jack sighed. "I don't hate it, exactly. Just...there's a lot of bad memories here for me. Some good ones too, though."

"Then try to think about them," Hugh said firmly, leaning down to slip his shoes off so that he could stretch out on the bed as well, his shoulder gently bumping against Jack's. "And try to behave yourself in front of the Major."

"I'll do my best to restrain myself." Staring up at the ceiling, Jack listened for a while to the sounds of the pub, the creak of floorboards, the rattle of the wind against the windows, and the soft squeaks of the bed beneath him. He really, really hated this place. Unfortunately, that didn't make it go away.

Sitting up, he looked around for the briefcase Jock had made him bring, finally spotting it by the side of the bed. "Come on," he said, nudging Hugh with his elbow. "Time to do our homework."

* * *

_The moment was all that Peter needed. Getting a fistful of Jack's coat, he tried to tip him over the edge, down into the ditch below. Jack held on, one hand on Peter's arm, the other braced against the stone work._

_"Alright!" he yelled. "Alright! Use me instead. Let him go, and use me." Despite himself, and the danger, he grinned. "I've got a lot more to offer you than he has."_

_There was a frozen moment, where the sounds of the storm and the rain seemed to fade a little, retreating as Jack looked into Peter's face. He could see the indecision there._

_"Come on," he said, "you know this is a better deal, for all of you."_

_Peter's expression faded again, returning to the blank mask. He and Jack were still holding onto each other, their fierce grips the only thing preventing Jack from falling. _

_"Done," Peter said, and Jack felt the hold on his arm start to loosen. _

_Then he felt the ghosts. They'd been all around him, the whole time he'd been at the castle, pressing at the edges of his awareness. Now they came into focus. He could feel the energy swirling and dancing, forcing its way in. He tried not to fight it, shifting the hand beneath him, feeling it tremble as Peter let go and it supported all of his weight. The ghosts were inside him now, he could feel them pushing, consuming, trying to suffocate him as they invaded his mind._

_"Jack?" _

_Peter's voice came from a very long way away as Jack's vision blurred. He knew from the confused, human tone that the other man would be alright. Sounds were fading now, too, as access to his senses was blocked. Soon he wouldn't be able to feel the cold or the wet or anything, ever again._

_He needed to act now._

_With a final effort, he turned to Peter._

_"Tell the Doctor, it's alright," he said, and let go._

_"Jack."_

The voice was still coming from a long way away. That was wrong. There shouldn't be any sound, only the blackness, the warmth of the light that held him, sustained him, brought him back.

_"Jack!"_

This was wrong. He was trapped, not just existing in the darkness but being smothered by it, enclosed and imprisoned so that he couldn't get out.

_"Jack, wake up!"_

Jack drew in a great, shuddering breath, feeling his body convulse as he sucked air into his lungs. He hadn't been dead, he knew; the nightmare had been worse than that ever felt. Looking up, he saw Hugh, his face too pale and his eyes too wide. When Jack tried to move, he felt the strong grip on his wrists that must have stopped him thrashing about in his sleep.

Despite everything, he managed to give Hugh a lopsided smile. "Learned your lesson, did you?"

"One right hook was quite enough, thank you so much." Ever so carefully, Hugh released his hold, leaning back to let Jack bring a hand to his face. It was drenched in sweat.

"Sorry."

Hugh made an annoyed noise. "I was more concerned about what was going on in that head of yours."

"Just memories."

"Of last time?"

Even though they couldn't really see each other in the dark, Jack nodded. "Peter. On the battlements. It got pretty bad."

"I worked that much out." The bed creaked as Hugh settled down again, turned towards Jack but giving him the space he needed. "You never did say what had happened."

Shrugging, Jack pushed the covers away. He was still too warm. "Pretty much what you'd think. The ghosts were trying to take over, trying to use us to live again. They got Peter, would have killed him if I hadn't-" He broke off, blinking against the sense memory of rain against his skin and the wind pulling at his clothes.

"You offered them yourself instead." It wasn't a question, and Jack frowned.

"I thought I hadn't told you."

"You didn't. But I know you."

They lay in silence for a while, Jack trying to calm his racing heart, matching his breathing to the soft sound of Hugh beside him. After a few minutes, Hugh reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and Jack began to relax a little, hearing Hugh's breathing slow and deepen. Between one breath and the next, Jack found himself falling asleep as well.

* * *

Jock gave him what Jack could only think of as _a look_ when they came down to breakfast.

"Sleep alright?" he asked, looking from Jack to Hugh and back again. Hugh was his normal, impeccable self, but Jack knew his own face reflected his disturbed night.

"Not really, no," he said shortly, taking a seat as Hugh went over to talk to the landlord. "You?"

"I've slept on worse. At least it means we'll get an early start."

"It's always the silver lining with you, isn't it?" Jack said grumpily as Hugh returned to the table.

"I try."

Expertly ignoring the glares that his superiors were shooting at each other, Hugh said, "We've been promised a good breakfast, and there was even the suggestion that coffee might be provided."

Jock looked at the mug in front of him, frowning. "I was told there was only tea."

"Hugh has his ways," Jack said, shaking his head. "I don't think there's anywhere on this planet where he can't magic up coffee."

"I do my best, sir."

There was indeed coffee, along with porridge and a bacon sandwich, and Jack half-expected Hugh to produce a bottle of ketchup from an inside pocket. It was a good breakfast, although as they walked out to the car, shivering in the early morning chill, Jack couldn't help but feel like the condemned man who'd been given his last meal.

The weather had closed in overnight, and the sky was thick with clouds, low and glowering. It was the landscape Jack remembered from so long ago, the tall towers of Torchwood House looming over the surrounding moors, the only sign of inhabitation for as far as the eye could see. Logically, Jack knew that they were just two hours from help, and only six or so from _real_ help, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd arrived at the edge of the world.

"The caretaker only comes up twice a week," Jock was saying. "That's why it took so long to notice anything."

"It's a big house," Jack said, his eyes fixed on the dark shape coming into focus in the distance.

"Still, it is his job. If it hadn't been for Peter, we wouldn't have known anything at all."

"How many artefacts made it to Glasgow?"

Jock frowned, obviously trying to remember. "Four that we know of. There were three more in Edinburgh, eight in Dundee and seven in Aberdeen. That's a lot of alien material, all of it coming from Torchwood House."

"All small stuff, though." The details of the file which Jack had read a hundred times still didn't seem to be sticking in his mind properly. "Nothing dangerous."

"There's nothing dangerous here anymore. Anything potentially harmful was taken to London. This is just the stuff that no one wanted."

"I thought we wanted everything."

Jock gave a harsh laugh. "We don't have unlimited space, Jack. And while you did a lot for the archives, there are still boxes and boxes of items that have never really been classified. There could be another hundred things loose in the cities of Scotland, and beyond, and we'd never know about it."

"Because we don't have the staff." It sounded ridiculous, but Jack had worked for enough bureaucracies to believe it. There were always too many things that the people at the top wanted doing, and never enough people to do them. "I'm surprised Torchwood doesn't just order them to do it. That's how it worked in the old days. Honestly, you'd think people didn't want to come and work up here, right on the edge of nowhere, just to put alien dust into the right boxes. "

"Something like that, " Jock said. "I think we're here."

The house was just as Jack remembered it, gloomy and dark, its solid walls seeming to have taken root in the ground. He jumped out of the car to open the gate for Hugh, but stopped with the bolt half-pulled back.

"What is it?" Jock called, sticking his head out of the window.

"Tracks," Jack said, his eyes tracing the faint outlines in the mud. "Lots of them."

Together, he and Hugh hauled the gates open, and the three of them spent an educational half hour examining the ground. Eventually, Jock nodded for Hugh to bring the car into the courtyard.

"I don't think we're going to learn anything actually useful," he said to Jack, who nodded. They'd untangled the evidence of three separate visits, probably from the same group of heavy-booted men. Each time, they'd brought a van or truck of some kind, loaded it up and driven off again, sometimes before the first set of prints had even dried.

Jack stood aside as Hugh brought the car in. The yard was deep in mud, and he retreated further into an archway, scraping the worst of it off on the flagstones. It wasn't raining yet, but he could feel the dampness in the air, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunkering down against the chill. Summer his-

"Jack!"

He looked over to where Jock and Hugh were struggling with the main door. Hugh was wearing one of his rare embarrassed looks, while Jock looked just plain sheepish. "Don't suppose you have a key?"

Despite it all, despite the weight that had settled onto him when the house first came into view, despite the twisted knot in his stomach that was an instinct for something about to go wrong, despite the miserable weather that he was sure hated him as much as he hated it; despite everything, Jack grinned.

"What would you do without me?"

Jock had the patience to wait until they were inside the dark hallway to ask, "Do you carry every key you've ever been given around with you?"

"I didn't hear you complaining," Jack said, fishing in his other pocket for his torch. "And you never know what else they might open. Does this place have power?"

"The generator should still work, if there's oil." Hugh shone his torch towards a door at the other end of the hall. There were only a few, high windows letting in the weak morning light, and the beam was bright in the gloom. "I think it's in one of the cellars."

"Of course," Jack said, following him towards the door. "Because in a creepy, abandoned house, it's always compulsory to head down to the creepy, abandoned basement." He realised Jock was still standing by the front door, shining his torch up the stairs. "Are you coming?"

"I think everything I know about mending generators could be written on the back of a postage stamp," Jock said dryly.

"Well, if you'd rather wander alone round the creepy, abandoned house where a lot of people have died over the years and which was most recently inhabited by killer ghosts, be my guest."

Jock hesitated. "When you put it like that..."

They located the generator eventually, stumbling round in the darkness until Jack kicked an empty oil can and it bounced off of something large and metallic.

"I guess that answers the fuel question," he said, waiting for the others to join him.

"I'd say so, sir." Hugh was running the beam of his torch over the machinery. "I don't think we'd get it started, even if we had the oil. It's worse than I expected."

"We'll just have to use the daylight while we've got it then," Jock said firmly. "Come on."

They traipsed past room after room that Jack remembered as being full of boxes, stuffed to the ceiling with decades of alien detritus. Hugh had a list, of course, and he and Jock ploughed through it, confirming which rooms should have been empty and which had been looted since Torchwood One last visited.

Trailing along behind them, Jack poked at fading curtains, wiped layers of dust from the pictures and tried not to jump at the memories that assaulted him every time he turned a corner. He'd spent a long time here, managing Torchwood's cast-off equipment and people, trying to do enough to earn their trust without revealing too much of his own knowledge in the process. There was barely a corridor that didn't remind him of someone, of a shared experience that he'd lost that last night.

Fourteen years ago, they'd decided to keep everything a secret, no one knew anything except Jock and Peter, and the latter had been shipped off to Glasgow with a reputation for eccentricity that had stuck. Then Hugh had got the truth out of Jack – that, and so much more – and gradually more and more people knew about him. He wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing. As he kept telling himself, it was what it was, and he'd deal with the consequences, whatever they were. But being back here, walking on the carpets that Mrs Garrow had always scolded them for treading mud into, it was hard not to be forced back all those years, to wonder what could have gone differently.

He'd come to a stop under a portrait, reading the inscription automatically. Colonel Leonard Harding. That rang a distant bell, but he couldn't quite place the name.

"Penny for them."

Jack jumped, looking down the corridor to see Hugh watching him, his torch turned off and the clipboard tucked under his arm.

"They're not worth that much," Jack said, turning back to the portrait briefly before giving up. The memory would come when it was ready. "How are we doing?"

"_We_ are about halfway through. _You_ should pay more attention to your own advice and not keep wandering off."

"Sorry." Trying for a reassuring smile that he had a feeling came off as a grimace, Jack slowly headed down the corridor. "It's easy to get distracted."

"Then let me distract you instead." The words were low and, for Hugh, almost flirtatious, and Jack's head jerked up, his surprise turning to laughter when he saw Hugh holding out the clipboard. "There are three more rooms on this floor, then we should break for lunch."

"How civilised," Jack said, meekly taking the clipboard and following Hugh back into a dusty room where Jock seemed to be trying and failing to count identical brown boxes.

* * *

After all this time, Jack really shouldn't have been surprised by Hugh anymore, but even he gaped when a mug of steaming hot and wonderful-smelling coffee was pressed into his hand.

"Hugh, you're a marvel," Jock said, taking his own cup with an appreciative sigh.

"I try, sir." With a nod and a half smile, Hugh went back to the small kerosene stove that he'd produced from the back of the car and set up on a sideboard. Jack wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had a full silver service and five course dinner in there. A man who could make good coffee in a place like this was capable of anything.

"What's the plan?" he asked Jock, who seemed to be trying to inhale his coffee as much as drink it.

"Finish the room check today, if we can. If not, we'll have to come back and do it tomorrow. I know it's boring," he said, seeing the look on Jack's face, "but it's the only way to get even an approximate idea of what might have gone."

"What has gone?"

"Surprisingly little." Jock pulled the clipboard towards him. They'd taken over the dining room, perching at the far end of the enormous table, although Jack had personally been in favour of sitting at either end and throwing things to each other. The table seemed to have survived the years reasonably well, even if Hugh had glared at it and produced a couple of handkerchiefs to lay over its varnished surface, which was sticky with layers of dust. Jack traced a finger through the coating of white grime as Jock read through the list. "There's nothing of major importance on here, just the odds and ends that we recovered. A box of what we think are firecrackers has gone missing, and there are a fair few decorative objects that seem to have been taken, but nothing of vital importance."

"There was never anything of vital importance here in the first place," Jack pointed out. "And those objects are only decorative as far as you know."

"As far as _you_ know, actually," Jock said, turning the clipboard round for Jack to see. "You identified most of them."

"Well." Looking away, Jack stirred up another pile of dust, drawing lines and circles on the table. "I could have been wrong."

"Accidentally on purpose?"

Jock was too old a friend for Jack to lie. "Some," he admitted. "Show me."

It wasn't easy, trying to remember what he'd thought humanity wasn't ready for, and what he just plain hadn't recognised. They found several items that he was sure had a purpose beyond looking pretty, but even then, they just lit up or made sounds, nothing harmful.

"It looks like we have the most benevolent thieves in the history of Torchwood," Jack said, pushing the list away again and shrugging at Jock's frown. "If there's a pattern, I can't see it."

"It's not random," Jock said slowly, staring at the notes Jack had scribbled on the sheets of paper. "They're only taking harmless objects. Nothing that will hurt anyone, nothing big enough to attract our attention. If it hadn't been for Peter's sharp eyes, we probably wouldn't have noticed most of them at all."

"Like I said, benevolent," Jack repeated as Hugh came over to join them.

"Maybe. Or maybe..." Jock trailed off, and Hugh gave Jack a puzzled look.

"Jock?"

"We need to finish the inventory," Jock said firmly. "Today. Let's split up." He waved away Jack's objections. "This is important, Jack. It's worth the risk. There's only the South Wing to do now, and we'll stay on the same floor. I just think we need to finish as quickly as possible."

"But you're not going to tell us why." Still confused, Jack took the offered pieces of paper.

"It's just a thought at the moment, just an instinct. But I know we have to get finished. Shall we?"

Jock wouldn't even let them break for a coffee in the middle of the afternoon, insisting that they pressed on until they'd reached the very top of the South Wing. By that time, they were all covered in grime, and even Hugh was looking worn out, a dark smudge on his cheek where he'd rubbed the dust in.

There were only four rooms up here, and Jack finished first, leaning against the wall in the corridor and waiting for the others to join him. Idly, he looked out of the window, down into the yard where they'd left the car. The house really didn't look any better from up here, the darkness of the stone seeming to suck the light in and hold it, casting a gloom over the whole area. On the other hand, when he craned his neck to look upwards, he wondered if he was doing the house a disservice. The sky was dark and thick with clouds, blocking most of the sunlight that had made it through earlier in the day. Jack had lived up long enough to know that it was going to be a bad night. This time, he was sure the weather hated him.

"Looks like it's going to rain," Hugh said, coming to stand beside him and also peering out of the window. "Could make the driving difficult, in the dark, on these roads."

"If it starts to come down badly, it'll be almost impossible."

"I've done it before." When Jack gave him a curious look, Hugh added, "Last time we were here. I helped drive everyone down to the village. Not a journey I'd like to repeat."

"No. But it wasn't like we had much choice that time. Tonight, I think we'll be better off sitting and shivering in our coats."

"Or we could use the sleeping bags I put in the car."

Jack shook his head. "What would we do without you, Hugh?"

As Hugh opened his mouth, apparently to tell him, they heard a cry from one of the rooms along the corridor. Jack was at the doorway before he even realised he'd moved, his gun appearing in his hand as if from nowhere. Inside, he found Jock waving a piece of paper, a triumphant smile on his face.

"I've got it!"

* * *

After what Jack chose to think of as a short discussion, rather than a brief argument, they brought the supplies in from the car. The sky was growing darker, the setting sun barely a glow on the horizon before it dropped out of sight altogether.

As usual, Hugh seemed to have thought of everything, and Jack could have sworn that the boot was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Since Jock seemed to have solved his mystery, Jack had been all for heading back to the village for the night, storm or no storm, but when Jock had seconded Hugh's reluctance, Jack had been outvoted.

"Camping it is," he said, as they set themselves up in the dining room. "If I light a fire, we could put out the lights and tell scary stories."

"I thought that's what we were doing anyway." Hugh was setting up a couple of storm lanterns that had been under the passenger seat, letting them turn their torches off to save the batteries. "Or Major Goody is going to, at least."

Jock grimaced, but didn't deny it. He did wait until they were all settled, and Jack had a sudden flash of memory, the three of them sitting round a dim fire, trying to work out what was besieging the house and how they were going to get out of this one. He supposed that it was of some small comfort that they had done. That time.

"Torchwood One's policy on emptying this place was to only take things that were of use," Jock began, settling back in a chair with a sleeping bag over his legs and a blanket round his shoulders. He'd taken one of the sandwiches that Hugh had made for dinner and was waving it for emphasis as he spoke. "Weapons, technology, anything that wasn't broken and was more than just decorative. After some discussion, we also decided to leave the earliest of Torchwood's records here. There's still not really room for them in London, and it's not like we need them anymore."

Hugh made a disapproving sound, and Jock raised an eyebrow at him, the gesture made oddly sinister by the lamplight. "If you're volunteering to have a couple of metric tonnes of paperwork in Cardiff, then be my guest."

"Alright, we get it. Nothing useless." Jack shifted in his chair, wishing he'd sat on the floor with Hugh. It was getting cold in here and he could have done with the extra warmth. But he'd promised best behaviour, and he really didn't want to interrupt Jock now.

"That also included some of the relics of Queen Victoria's stay here. The box that the Koh-i-noor was originally kept in, a lace handkerchief, a small cloth bag. Nothing very interesting, I would have thought."

"And they're among the things that are missing?"

Jock nodded, smiling ironically. "If you were going to steal something extremely valuable, and that no one else knew was valuable, what would you do?"

Catching on, Jack said, "I'd take a lot of other things that were similar, but not as important. So that no one spotted my object on the list."

"Letting some of the things get to Glasgow was careless," Hugh put in. "If hadn't been for that, we probably wouldn't have known anything was missing until it was too late."

"Too late for what?" Looking from Jock to Hugh and back again, Jack gave them both puzzled looks. "We can't even be sure that it's Victoria's stuff they came for, not really. What if it's something else that we don't even know is dangerous or valuable or whatever?"

"That's a fair point, but nothing else from the early part of the collection is gone. Most of it's just paperwork anyway, but they specifically took the box labelled 'Queen Victoria'. That's the best I can come up with."

"But why?" Jack insisted. "I understand taking everything else as camouflage, but why that box?"

"I don't know." Seeing Jack's surprise, Jock shrugged. "This is just a hunch, Jack. Queen Victoria's visit was vital to the founding of the Torchwood Institute. I refuse to believe that the theft of anything associated with her is insignificant."

"Maybe they're souvenir hunters," Hugh suggested, and Jack shook his head, remembering all the tracks they'd found in the yard.

"This is a serious operation," he said, " and they made multiple visits to be sure they'd got the right thing. Whatever it is, it's important."

They sat in silence for a while, eating quietly and all apparently lost in thought. Outside, Jack heard the first roll of thunder.

"Storm's breaking," he said. "It's going to be a long night."

* * *

Jack didn't sleep. He'd slept well enough the night before, after his nightmare, and he lay on the floor between Hugh and Jock, staring into the darkness and trying to clear his head enough to at least relax. It was probably a good plan for one of them to keep watch anyway.

On one side of him, Jock began to snore again, and Jack elbowed him gently, enough to stir him and make him stop. On his other, Hugh shifted a little, as though the sound and movement had disturbed him. And if anyone had told Jack ten years ago that Hugh Jones was a cuddler, he would have asked them what they'd been smoking. Admittedly there were clothes and sleeping bags in the way, but Hugh was pressed tight against Jack's chest, huddling close for what he would probably say was warmth. It was chilly, after all, and Jack certainly wasn't objecting.

He shifted so that he could get his arm free, and risked slipping it out of his sleeping bag and around Hugh. The cold was almost biting, and he was cursing the insulating properties of stone buildings as he pulled Hugh closer.

And froze.

The house creaked, of course, as much as the pub had. But Jack was used to the sounds, had been listening to them during the hours while the others slept, and the noise he'd heard had been made by a person, he was sure. Carefully, he tightened his grip on Hugh's shoulders, shaking the other man enough to rouse him.

"Shhh." Getting his other hand free, he pressed a finger to Hugh's lips, feeling him nod before he let go. Just as slowly, he leaned over and put a hand over Jock's mouth, moving closer to muffle the startled thrashing and whispering in Jock's ear, "There's someone here."

Jock went still, then nodded against Jack's hand, turning as Jack released him. Behind him, Jack could hear Hugh moving about, probably putting his shoes on, and sleeping in their clothes suddenly seemed like the best idea they'd had all day. It was hard to pick out sounds from the rest of the house as Jack groped around for his boots, and Jock swore under his breath – a muffled bump suggested that he'd hit something in the dark, probably the chair.

After another minute of breathless movement, they were all three of them on their feet, moving by the light of Hugh's torch, which he'd pressed his hand over, only letting a slim beam of light escape. Jack had found his torch next to his boots along with his gun, and its solid weight was reassuring in his hand. By the time they reached the door, the muffled footsteps were closer, not quite upon them yet, but in the same wing of the house. Gesturing for Hugh to turn the torch off, Jack put a hand on the door handle, taking a deep breath before swinging it open.

There were lights moving in the corridor, and Jack reacted on instinct, moving towards the faint glow, holding his gun and torch low and close to his body. As he reached the corner, he slowed, pressing himself against the wall and trying peer round. The lights were getting closer and he ducked back, using the dim glow to check on Hugh and Jock, who were waiting further down the corridor, quiet and still. Good. There was no point all three of them taking stupid risks.

As the light became brighter, Jack tensed, listening to the footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. He waited until he judged the light-bearer was just around the corner, then he moved, swinging round the corner, bringing the torch up and flicking it on. The other man's torch half-blinded him, but he was just about able to aim his own beam into the man's eyes, giving him a precious second to act. He didn't want to fire the gun until he absolutely had to, so he swung it like a club instead, connecting with the side of the man's head and knocking him to the floor. The light fell, and he blinked in relief, double checking that there was no one lurking further down the corridor before bending to check on the man he'd downed. He was groaning faintly, and another swift blow made him fall silent.

He sensed as much as heard Hugh come up behind him, his footsteps almost silent as he joined Jack in running the beam of his torch over the unconscious man. There was nothing distinguishing about him or his clothes, no handy name badge or wallet in his pocket with a membership card to tell them what the hell kind of secret society raided alien warehouses in the middle of the Scottish moors.

Jock's steps were considerably less silent than Hugh's, and when Jack looked up, he saw he was keeping his eyes and his gun trained on the other end of the corridor. After a moment's thought, Jack picked up the brighter flashlight that had been dropped in the brief struggle, flicked it off and passed it to Jock. Then he stood, beckoning the others closer so that their heads were almost touching.

"If this is the same size group as came before, we're going to need to split up." Hearing Jock start to protest, he went on quickly, "At least one of us needs to get away, and there's a lot of them. We've got the advantage of surprise but that's about it. They'll have seen the car, but they won't know exactly where in the house we are. Split up, take them out quietly and we might have a chance."

Hugh's expression suggested that what he really wanted to do was grab the car and get the hell out of there, but he nodded when Jack looked at him. After a moment's hesitation, Jock did too, which was a relief. While he'd concede precedence in strategy to Jock, and in logistics to Hugh, there was no way that either of them had his kind of experience when it came to this kind of thing. As he lead the way towards the door into the main house, he tried not to think about that too much. He wanted to keep the others with him – hell, what he really wanted was to keep them behind him – but they'd counted at least fourteen different sets of footprints in the mud of the yard earlier on. That was too many for them to take out as a group, and three people moving together made so much more noise than one.

They'd reached one of the smaller staircases, probably for staff access, and Jack nodded for Jock to go up the stairs, Hugh to carry on along this floor, while he chose downstairs for himself. In the pale moonlight coming through the window, he saw Jock nod and a moment later the stairs began to creak as he climbed. Hugh was still for a long moment, holding Jack's gaze. Then he nodded, waiting for Jack to return the gesture before turning and opening the door into the main house. Taking a deep breath, Jack put a hand on the banister and headed down the stairs.

It was disappointingly quiet down here, and Jack didn't know if that was because the invaders had been through already or if they hadn't got here yet. Either way, it wasn't much use roaming the empty corridors and rooms of the lower servants' wing all by himself. The main staircase didn't come down to this level, and Jack headed through to the flight at the far end of the house, the twin to the one he'd come down, and began to climb again. Each step squeaked horrendously, no matter how lightly he trod or how close to the edges he stood. It was like the house wanted him to be found, and Jack spared a moment to curse it, inventively and in several languages, before trying to reach the top as quickly as possible.

He'd walked the width of the house, albeit underground, and he emerged at the opposite end of the main hall. From here, he could retreat to the kitchen and larder, or he could go forwards into the hall. He didn't like the risk of leaving the rooms behind him unchecked, but a faint murmuring from ahead drew him forwards.

There was a sudden yell, and he flattened himself against the wall instinctively, although if anyone came this way, he'd only have a second before they spotted him. Sometimes, that was enough.

Creeping along the corridor, Jack tried to hear the conversation. The door to the hall was thick, solid wood, stopping him from making out any words, and he'd have to risk opening it a fraction to hear what was going on. All he had to hope now was that the hinges didn't creak.

They didn't, but he didn't dare to push them further than half an inch or so, just enough that he could distinguish individual voices and make out the words.

"Are there any more?" That voice was low and soft, not much more than a whisper, and Jack couldn't tell whether the speaker was a man or a woman.

"Probably. Ted's bringing this one along then we'll do another sweep." The accent was Highlands, so thick that Jack had trouble making out the words, and although he was keeping his voice low, the depth and resonance had to belong to a man.

"Very well. Take them alive, please. I think someone must have alerted Torchwood, and I want to know what they know."

"Alright, but afterwards, it'd be better to make it look like they had an accident here, or maybe on the road."

"Afterwards, I think we can find a much better use for them." There was a deep sigh, and Jack was fairly sure the first speaker was a woman as she went on, a little louder, "We're too close to realising my father's dream to let anything stop us now. Is everything secure outside?"

"Once we're sure it will work, we can be established within an hour."

"Good. Do we have a candidate?"

"Three. I thought you would want to make the final choice yourself."

"I do. Send them up when you've done another sweep of the house. No surprises tonight."

Jack pushed the door another half inch, grateful that it didn't resist. He had a decent view of the hall now, of the hooded figures waiting by the front door. In the gloom, he couldn't make out much more than their silhouettes, dark shapes against the dark wood of the walls. Footsteps coming down along the corridor made him step back a fraction, leaving the door open so that he could still just about see what was going on. Two men were dragging a third, dumping him unceremoniously on the floor when they reached the hall. It took an effort of will for Jack to stay where he was, digging his nails the palm of his hand as a reminder that charging in without knowing anything was always a really bad idea. He stopped listening to the low voices in the hallway, focussing on the figure on the floor.

Hugh hadn't moved. Without light, Jack couldn't tell whether he'd been hit or shot or was just playing dead so that no one hit or shot him to make sure. Whatever the reason, he lay on the hall floor, arms and legs splayed out and his face turned away from Jack. It wasn't really much comfort that his captors wanted them all alive; in Jack's experience, that usually meant there was worse to come.

He stayed where he was as the men who'd brought Hugh headed up into the house, probably looking for Jock. That only left two invaders in the hall, and he had plenty of bullets left in his gun. He didn't really want to have to fire at them, partly for the noise and partly because he wanted to be able to beat some answers out of them later, but if it was a choice between that and getting Hugh out of there alive, then it was no choice at all.

Cocking his gun, he slowly pushed the door open another half inch, then another, bracing himself for the noise it was bound to make at some point. For once, luck seemed to be on his side, and he got it open enough to slip into the hall without making a sound. He lurked in the shadows for a moment, watching the two hooded figures for any sign that he'd been spotted. They carried on talking, in lower voices than before that he couldn't hear this time, and kept their attention on the main staircase. Not professionals, then.

Taking a deep breath, Jack stepped out into the hall, gun raised and aimed unswervingly at one hooded head.

"Alright, stay exactly where you are. I said stay." He raised his voice a little as the man nearest him started to turn. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Jack? Jack Harkness?" The second figure, whose voice now gave her away, pushed back her hood and stared at him.

Jack stared back, not letting the gun waver, despite the shock that settled low in his stomach, a cold, hard fear that made him grip the gun tighter and reach into his pocket for his torch. When he flicked it on, he shone it at her face, ignoring the obvious discomfort the bright light caused.

"Do you mind?" She raised a hand to protect her eyes, but not before Jack had seen enough. It had been fourteen years, and time caught up with all of them eventually. There were fine lines at the corner of her eyes, and she wore her hair more severely now, scraped back and pulled tight, with just a hint of grey at the temples. Still, there was no mistaking the woman in front of him.

"Sarah? Sarah Harding?" he whispered, blinking and resisting the urge to take a step towards her. "I don't understand. I thought you were never coming back to this place."

"And I thought you were dead," she said, not lowering the hand that guarded her face. "Strange world." Her voice was unchanged, and Jack wondered how he hadn't recognised it before.

Sarah Harding. Last of the family that had looked after this house for generations, caretaking it on behalf of the MacLeishes ever since the Torchwood Institute had been founded and who'd eventually left it to his care, for all the good it had done him. Jack remembered her visits as bright spots in the boredom, but she'd left before any of the trouble with the ghosts had started, and he hadn't seen her since. If he'd made a list of suspects, she wouldn't even have been on the long version.

Two gunshots shattered the silence of the hallway, and Jack smelt the gunpowder, heard the dying echoes before he felt the pain. He'd let himself become distracted by Sarah, forgotten to watch his back, and he kept his eyes on her face as he slowly sank to his knees, feeling warmth spread from just below his shoulder blade across his back, and from his hip as blood began to run down his leg, the flare of pain receding as his eyes lost their focus. Someone was taking the gun from his hand, talking to him although the words were too far away for him to hear.

Then the pain came rushing in, bright and hot and searing, and Jack watched as the world went black.

**Part Two**

_There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls_  
George Carlin

The shots echoed through the house, making Jock jump and duck into the nearest doorway. He'd only come across one of the invaders so far, who'd proved to have a rather hard head, even when Jock turned his gun round and hit him with the handle. But although his torch had broken in the encounter, it had been nearly silent and the man was now safely locked in one of the hundreds of empty rooms while Jock continued his quiet prowl from floor to floor, occasionally dabbing at his nose where the black-clad man had got in a lucky punch.

After a few minutes of huddling in the darker doorway, Jock decided no one was coming in his direction, and he risked moving towards the stairs. He could hear movement from below him, at the bottom of the main staircase, and he dropped to his knees, crawling closer to peer between the banisters. It was hard to make out the shapes in the darkness until someone helpfully turned on a bright flashlight, half-blinding him. When his eyes cleared, he blinked down into the main hall, seeing a cluster of men, all dressed in black, hefting two unconscious bodies between them. It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened, and for a horrible moment, Jock couldn't move. Two shots, two limp bodies. His heart pounded in his chest and his mind went blank, fixated on the image of his friends being carried away.

Then one of the bodies stirred, moaning a little as he was dragged towards the cellar door, and Jock's breath came back all in a rush, so that he almost fell against the banisters as his arms went weak with relief. Jack would be fine, of course, and Hugh was still alive. For now. Of course, the shots could just have been disabling, or they could have been warnings, or they could have been fired by Jack or Hugh in self-defence.

Forcing himself to stop, Jock sat back from the banisters, trying to get his brain to work again. Running through endless permutations wouldn't get him anywhere. He needed to think and he needed to act. He was on his own, left to deal with a group of hostile unknowns with who knew what intentions and what firepower. And he had – he checked his gun – six bullets with which to do it. Great. Thank you, gentlemen. He cursed his friends silently as he began to move, because right now, he really wasn't in a mood to be reasonable. He needed to either hole up somewhere and wait it out, or he needed to take out as many of the enemy as he could and find out who was behind all of this. If he'd been on his own, he probably would have chosen the former, but the shots were echoing his memory, too loudly for him ignore. Given his hit rate so far, it wasn't going to be enough to just hope he stumbled across them. Time to go hunting.

The rain was still lashing at the windows as Jock crept down the servants' staircase to the kitchen, and the door to the yard was rattling on its hinges so badly that he didn't worry too much about the noises he was making. There was no key anywhere in sight, so he waited for a moment, until a loud gust of wind came whistling along the back of the house, then he put his should to the door and shoved, feeling something start to give. He waited for another gust, blinking against a flash of lightning and taking advantage of the rolling thunder to step back and kick hard at the lock. It gave way, with a splintering crack that Jock thought could probably have been heard in Glasgow. He'd worry about that later. Lifting one hand to protect his eyes from the driving rain, he stepped out into the night.

As expected, there was a large van parked in the courtyard, blocking Jock's view of the car. He peered cautiously round the corner of the building, trying to see how many men were standing guard. One was sheltering in the cab, while another was lurking near the main gate. He would have been invisible in the darkness, except the cigarette he was smoking glowed red, a bright light in the darkness.

Careless. Jock's Major would have had his guts for garters if he'd done that during his service. He watched as the fire sparked then dimmed again, then moved slowly out of sight. There was no way to be sure, but Jock suspected it meant the guard had turned his back. Only one way to find out.

Someone up there must have liked him, because just as he went to move, a bright flash of lightening filled the sky. Jock was running before his eyes had readjusted, trusting his memory and sense of direction to run towards the van. As he'd hoped, the driver was still blinking, trying to get rid of the afterimages when Jock pulled the van door open and dragged him out by his collar. Jock jumped aside as he fell, barely hesitating before kicking the man in the stomach then hitting over the head with his gun. It hadn't been a silent action, but it was near enough and Jock didn't hear any warning cries as he ran towards the archway, trying not to fall in the deepening quagmire of the yard. The sentry opened his mouth to shout, shutting it quickly as he looked down the barrel of Jock's gun.

They were out of the worst of the storm, although the wind was blowing the rain almost horizontally under here. Jock shivered, feeling the water seep through his jacket and trousers. He was in no mood for games.

"Who do you work for?" he asked, half-yelling to be heard over the gale. His prisoner carried on staring at the gun, face blank and mouth tightly shut. Jock tried again. "What do you want?" There wasn't even a flicker in the man's eyes. Stepping back a little, Jock took a deep breath and forced himself to think. He'd seen three men so far, all wearing the black outfits that he'd assumed were a uniform of some kind. But hired thugs didn't usually come with uniforms, and they certainly did a better job of watching their backs. The man in front of him had his hood pushed back, raindrops rolling over his head which was recently shaved. In the next flash of lightening, Jock saw that the hood was attached to a long coat, almost like a cloak, and the clothes underneath were simple black cotton as well. Combined with the almost serene look in the man's eyes, Jock was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

He must have looked distracted, because his captive suddenly lunged towards him, moving faster than Jock had expected and slamming him back into the other side of the archway. Cold fingers closed over his on the gun, while the others tried to clutch at his throat. Jock took half a second to brace himself against the wet stonework, then he shoved back, getting his free hand to his attacker's face.

It wasn't how he'd been taught to fight. That was all fisticuffs and weapons and sporting chances and fighting fair. And he'd believed in it, right up to the moment that his first platoon had been decimated by sniper fire in France. There, he'd learned that you did what was necessary to keep yourself and your men alive. Then Jack Harkness had arrived on his doorstep, and Jock had learned how to do those necessary things without flinching. So he didn't hesitate to stick his thumb into the other man's eye.

Even over the rain, he heard the horrible, wet sound and felt the stickiness of blood and worse on his hand. The man howled in pain, lifting his face to the sky and screaming, without taking his hand from Jock's throat or the gun. This was not good. Pulling his hand back, Jock aimed a punch at the side of the man's face, hoping to hit some of the damage he'd caused and shock him into letting go. The fingers on his skin hesitated, but were back a second later, trying to close on Jock's windpipe.

Desperate now, Jock shifted his attention to his other hand, locked tight in his attacker's along with his gun. Moving slowly, and gasping for air, he turned his wrist, trying to get leverage to pull free of the wall, if not the grip. For a moment, he thought the other man was going to be too strong for him, and he tried to lean away from the hand that was closing on his throat. Then he felt something give, found that his hand could move, and he didn't hesitate. With as much strength as he could muster, he brought the gun round, waiting until it connected with the other man's ribs. Then he pulled the trigger.

The noise was awful, echoing in the enclosed space as the smoke drifted upwards, catching in Jock's nose and throat. In front of him, his attacker convulsed for a moment, then slowly fell to the ground, his hand still twitching as though trying to grip Jock's hand or throat. There was no way to tell if the injury would be fatal in the long run, and Jock didn't have the stomach to finish the job off.

Turning back to the yard, he ran as best he could, not stopping until he reached the back door again. He paused for a moment to hold his hand under the stream from an over-flowing gutter, rinsing the traces of blood from it before he went back inside. Every part of his suit was dripping, and he wiped his gun on the tails of his shirt, which were moderately drier than the rest of his clothes. Tucking them back in, he headed into the main house, wincing as his shoes squeaked on the floorboards.

With the storm raging outside, it was doubtful that anyone had heard the shot, and Jock stopped in a patch of moonlight to glance at his watch. Less than an hour had passed since Jack had woken him up. It felt like longer. He was hesitating, wondering whether it would make more sense to try to find Jack and Hugh, or if he'd be better off trying to take out more of the intruders first, when he heard footsteps ahead of him.

Walking very slowly and carefully, he crept towards the door into the hall, timing his steps to match the ones he could hear coming down the stairs. The door was half-open, but he didn't dare try to see out, not wanting to risk being seen in turn. He stepped into one of the deeper shadows, hoping he wasn't breathing too loud, and tried to listen.

"...later." The voice was low and barely audible, and Jock shifted closer, praying that the floorboards wouldn't creak under him.

"He was hurt pretty badly," another voice replied. "Should we check on them?"

"Only to see that they're still down there," the first speaker said. "We don't have time to play doctors and nurses."

"Of course, I only meant-"

"There's too much at stake for us to get distracted now. Afterwards, we'll find out what they know, if they survive, and dispose of them. For now, just keep an eye on them. We can't afford to be distracted tonight." The speaker paused, drawing in a deep breath. "It is time."

"It is time."

Jock heard the front door open, and ducked back against the wall as a gust of wind caught the door he was hiding behind, blowing it open. He needed to move fast. There was a slim possibility that they'd think the injured men were Jack or Hugh's handiwork, but it wasn't a risk he was prepared to take. 'Still down there' the first speaker, who'd seemed to be in charge, had said.

Turning, Jock pushed at the cellar door behind him, taking out his gun when it opened under his touch. It didn't sound like they'd posted a sentry, and the staircase appeared to be empty as it descended into the darkness. He closed the door behind him, keeping one hand on the wall as he carefully made his way down the steps, trying not to stumble in the pitch black. There was another door at the bottom, he remembered, and this time he had to fumble around for the door handle, cursing when he found it locked. Which was to be expected, of course.

What he hadn't expected was to find the key in the lock. Careless. But then the invaders thought they were now alone in the house, and were probably acting accordingly. Jock really, really hoped they kept making mistakes like that. Turning the key, he opened the door a fraction, still not entirely sure what he was going to find on the inside.

It seemed to be his night for surprises. As he pushed the door further open, someone threw themselves against it from the other side, nearly knocking him over and sending his gun flying. He ducked instinctively, so that the blow aimed for his head brushed over his hair.

"Major Goody?" Just inside the doorway, Hugh was holding what looked like a lump of rotten wood, brandishing it like a sword. His face was a mixture of embarrassment and concern as he helped Jock up again, brushing a handful of dust from the front of his suit. "Sorry about that, sir."

"Understandable under the circumstances, Jones." Jock retrieved his gun, checking it before looking back to Hugh. "You alright?"

"Fine, thank you, sir."

"And Jack?" The blank mask that came down over Hugh's face told Jock all he needed to know. "Where is he?"

The cellar was actually lighter than the main house, thanks to a cracked oil lamp that was barely glowing, its flame flickering and sputtering from time to time. It didn't seem to be doing much except casting strange shadows on the walls and over Hugh's face as he led the way to the far side of the room, where Jack was lying. It was hard to be sure of anything in this kind of light, but Jock thought Jack looked pale, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips parted, obviously struggling to breathe. As he came closer, Jock could hear a strained, wet noise every time Jack's chest rose and fell. He knew that sound.

"I can't be sure, but I think he's bleeding internally. The bullet hit him in the back somewhere, and there's blood in his lungs," Hugh said unnecessarily, kneeling down and checking what looked like a rough dressing on Jack's hip. "He keeps coughing it up. The second didn't do too much damage, but it didn't need to."

"It's a miracle he's still breathing," Jock said, crouching on Jack's other side. As he did so, Jack stirred a little, opening his eyes just a fraction. Hugh was there at once, taking Jack's hand in his and speaking in a low, reassuring voice.

"It's alright. Major Goody's here. Don't try to move."

"Jock?" Jack blinked a few times, looking round in the darkness. "Nice work. When are we getting out of here?" He coughed a little, his face contorting into a grimace as he did so. "Damn, that hurts."

"I think Hugh and I will have to handle this one," Jock said softly, putting a hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Like hell." Turning his head a fraction, Jack looked at Hugh, holding his gaze for a long moment. "Let me help."

Jock frowned, shifting his attention from Jack to Hugh, who had turned his face away to stare at the floor.

"We've had this conversation already," he said, so quietly that Jock nearly didn't hear the words over the sound of the storm outside.

"And I was right last time, too." Jack coughed again, stopping to catch his breath and Jock saw red spots on his lips. "Hugh."

Feeling like the gooseberry at a school dance, Jock looked from one man to the other. "Is someone going to explain to me what's going on?"

Since Hugh still had his eyes fixed on the ground, Jack swallowed with obvious effort and said, "I can heal completely, but not like this. Not while I'm alive."

The emphasis on the last word made Jock blink, realisation dawning. Carefully, he sat back on the cold, dirty floor and blew out a long breath. "You're asking a lot."

"He always does." As Hugh turned back towards them, the cellar was lit by a flash of lightening, and Jock bit the inside of his mouth, trying not to say anything. He was used to Hugh Jones, head of Torchwood Three, quiet, efficient and always professionally blank. The look of sheer, raw pain on the man's face made Jock want to look away quickly, pretend he hadn't seen it.

And the worst of it was, Jock was fairly sure he agreed with Jack. Drowning in your own blood was a horrible way to die.

"We can't use the gun," he said softly, although Hugh started at the sound of his voice. "Not inside the house like this. It's bound to attract someone's attention."

Jack nodded slightly, still not taking his eyes from Hugh. Getting back to his knees, Jock forced himself to stay quiet. He didn't want to offer his own services, not only because he'd already tried to kill a man with his bare hands once tonight and really, really didn't want to have another go. There was something passing between Jack and Hugh, a conversation that he wasn't a part of and stood no chance of understanding. He looked away, staring up at the small window set high in the wall, watching the raindrops run down it and bracing himself for the next clap of thunder.

He didn't jump when it came, listening to the noise roll over the house and shake the window panes again. It was the cold hand against his that startled him, and he looked down into Jack's strained face.

"You still with us?"

"Are you?" Jock's voice sounded odd in his own ears, too hoarse and clipped.

"Jock." The word wasn't much more than a whisper, Jack's eyes saying more than his voice. Jock had seen that look too many times not to recognise it, the strange peace of a dying man.

Gripping the hand that had touched his, Jock cleared his throat. "I'll check we're not about to be disturbed."

He tried not to stagger as he got to his feet, brushing some of the dirt from his knees and not looking back as he made his way over to the door. All he actually succeeded in doing was making his hands even dirtier, the dust clinging to damp cloth, then to his palms as he tried to get them clean. Undoing his suit jacket, he wiped his hands on his shirt, bringing them away cleaner than they had been, if not exactly dirt-free.

Through all his fussing, he made sure he kept his back to the far corner of the room, not sure whether he was granting privacy or sparing himself. He took his gun out and carefully wiped the last of the water from it, not sure whether to put it away or hold onto it for now. They weren't going to remain undiscovered forever, but he didn't want to use it inside unless he had to. It was going to be hard enough to stay undiscovered just walking around. Firing guns all over the place was only going to make things worse.

A sound made him turn, eyes drawn to the gently lit corner, where Hugh was crouched over Jack. At first, Jock wasn't sure what had caught his attention, then he heard it again and realised it was Jack, speaking in a low, broken voice. Hugh was shaking his head, bowing low as Jack reached up a hand to grip the back of his neck. The strange tableau was suddenly lit by the storm, and in the glare of light, Hugh looked like he was asking for Jack's blessing, or maybe just praying for mercy. He lifted his head again, and his face gleamed wetly in the next flash of lightening. Then the room was darker again, and Jock had to blink to try to clear his eyes from the afterimage.

He could have looked away, of course. That had been the point of coming over here, to give them the privacy they needed. He should have looked away.

And he couldn't.

As he watched, Hugh pulled his jacket off, folding it carefully, while Jack closed his eyes again, tipping his head back a little, only the slow rise and fall of his chest an indication that he was still alive. Very slowly, Hugh reached out and put a hand on Jack's exposed throat, wrapping his fingers round to the side. Jock really, really wished he didn't understand, hadn't sat through lectures on the ways to kill someone if you were unarmed, on the position of arteries and veins, on how much pressure was needed to cut the blood supply to the brain. Not a lot, but enough, and even in the dim lamplight, Jock could see Hugh's fingers digging into the side of Jack's neck.

Jock was half-holding his breath himself when Hugh picked up his folded jacket and put it over Jack's face, pressing down with his hand. A brief shudder ran through Jack's body, although he had to be unconscious by now. The movement must have been a reflex, pure reaction to the sudden lack of oxygen. Hugh had his back to Jock now, but Jock could see the force he was using to push the cloth against Jack's face, the grip that his hand still held on Jack's throat, the tightness in his shoulders and back as he hunched over, seeing it through to the end.

Unable to watch anymore, Jock turned away, fighting to get himself under control. Hugh was doing the job that he didn't have the stomach for, however right it was. It was impossible to get used to the idea that Jack was always going to come back to life, that the cold, limp body was going to be warm and alive again. He put a hand against the wall, steadying himself and trying to listen. All he could hear was the rain driving against the walls and windows, the wind howling around the towers and turrets of the house. There was no sound at all from the corner of the cellar.

He waited for what felt like an eternity, digging his fingers into the rough brickwork that crumbled under his touch. Eventually, he couldn't stand it any longer, and he turned to see what was happening. Hugh was still kneeling by Jack's body, his jacket on the floor beside him. He was holding one of Jack's hands in his, keeping his head bowed and body bent as though in prayer. As before, Jock knew he was the intruder here, into something that ran deeper than the casual affection he'd always known about. Jack had trusted Hugh to do this, asked him, knowing he would say yes.

Jock couldn't begin to understand what that meant, couldn't grasp the kind of bond that could survive under this much strain. What he did understand was Hugh's closed eyes, and the way he kept running his thumb over the back of Jack's hand, as though trying to warm it again. Slowly, he crossed the room, lowering himself to the floor on Jack's other side as before and looking down at the now peaceful face.

"Sorry." The word wasn't much more than a whisper, but Jock looked up sharply, surprised to find that Hugh had opened his eyes and was looking at him. Hugh's face was dry now, his eyes wide and dark as he met Jock's puzzled look. "It's always hard."

"You're apologising to me?" Shaking his head, Jock tried not to laugh, because he had a feeling it would come out more hysterically than he intended. "Jones. Hugh, I can't-" He broke off, still shaking his head. "He trusts you."

"And now we have to trust him." Hugh shifted his gaze to Jack's face, still not letting go of the pale hand in his. "I hate the waiting."

"How long, do you think?"

"Anywhere from a few minutes to an hour. It's not an exact science."

They sat in silence, and Jock could feel the cold seeping into his skin through his wet clothes. He ached, bone deep and weary from too little sleep and the down from the adrenaline high. When his head dropped to his chest for the third time, he roused himself and looked over at Hugh, who hadn't moved.

"Has this happened before?"

It wasn't quite what he'd meant to ask, but Hugh seemed to pick up the meaning behind it. He shook his head. "He asked, but I couldn't. Not then."

"I don't blame you."

"He said I had to trust him, that he'd be alright. He promised me that he'd be alright." Hugh's voice was low and steady, but the hand that wasn't holding Jack's shook a little.

"He will." Jock said it as firmly as he could, not letting himself doubt it. "We've seen him come back from worse than this."

Hugh said nothing. After another minute or so, Jock stirred himself again, getting to his feet and stretching his stiff shoulders. "We can't stay down here forever. Sooner or later they're going to figure out there are more of us, or someone's going to come check on you. I take it your plan had only got as far as rushing whoever came in through the door?"

With his usual deadly seriousness, Hugh said, "I had a piece of wood to hit them with, sir."

This time, Jock let himself laugh. "I'm sure that would have done the trick, Jones. But let's see if we can get out of here before that's necessary, shall we?"

"Do you have a plan, sir?"

"More or less." Jock thought for a moment. "We have no idea what's going on here, except that it's a lot bigger than we thought. I suggest we get to the car and get out of here, come back with reinforcements another time."

"What about the storm, sir? It's going to be pretty bad driving."

"It's going to be pretty bad here," Jock pointed out. "Better to take our chances with the moors."

Hugh didn't look convinced. "We don't know the roads, and the car wasn't meant for this kind of thing."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Apart from waiting it out? There's a lot of rooms in this place, sir. It'd take them a long time to find us."

It was tempting. Jock hated the idea of just turning and running, but he wasn't sure what good they could do by lurking round the house, with one gun against that gang. They were getting exactly nowhere like this. He was trying to think, tapping one hand against the wall, when Jack took a huge, gasping breath.

Hugh, who hadn't let go of Jack's hand at all, jumped violently, leaning forwards and helping Jack to sit up, shifting so that he could support him from behind. Jack coughed for a moment, struggling to breathe, then he tipped his head back, eyes closed. He was pale, with the lamplight highlighting the bright colour on his cheeks, emphasising the hollows and planes of his face and throat. Still, looking near-death was probably step up from actually being dead.

Coughing a few more times, Jack shook his head weakly.

"I really hate that."

"Hello to you too," Jock said, waiting for Jack to lift his head and look at him before chancing a half-smile. "Good to have you back."

"Good to be back." Jack rolled his shoulders a little, managing to lift his head, but not much more than that. "What's happening?"

"You were only gone a few minutes," Hugh said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, as though he didn't have both arms wrapped around Jack's chest, and his voice wasn't muffled where his chin was pressed to Jack's shoulder. "The Major thinks we should leave."

Glaring at Hugh, Jock turned his attention back to Jack. "I don't see what we can do here."

As Jack started to struggle to his feet, Jock held out a hand, helping him up. He still seemed a little unsteady, and he didn't resist as Hugh came round and pulled an arm over his shoulder, supporting him on the other side.

"Jock, it's Sarah Harding." Jack's voice was still rough, and he tried to clear his throat before speaking again. "Sarah Harding is running this show."

Jock stared dumbly at Jack for a long moment. "What?" he said at last. "I don't understand. I thought she was in London."

"Obviously not. I'm alright, Hugh." Untangling himself from Hugh, but keeping one hand on his shoulder, Jack just about managed to stand on his own, turning to face Jock. "There's something bigger going on here, you know that. We can't just walk away."

"I was planning on driving." Still, Jock knew he was outvoted. "Fine." He threw his hands up. "What do you suggest?"

Jack opened his mouth to speak, stopping as a sound rose above even the noise of the storm. The howl cut through the wind and the rain, making the hairs rise on the back of Jock's neck and his fingers clench around his gun.

"What was that?" he asked, seeing his own shock mirrored on Jack and Hugh's faces. Both of them shook their heads, and they stood in silence for another moment, listening to the weather batter at the house. Jock was just starting to think that he'd imagined it, that it had just been the wind gusting harder or catching in the guttering, when the howl came again, echoing in Jock's mind and triggering every instinct he had. He wanted to run, find somewhere to hide, anywhere to get away from the creature that could make a noise like that.

Once it had died away again, Jack shook his head. "You know, I hate to say this."

"Then don't." Hugh ran a hand through his hair, giving Jack an annoyed glance.

"Say what?"

Pausing for what Jock was fairly sure was dramatic effect, Jack drew in a long breath. "It's a full moon tonight."

It took Jock a moment to catch on. Then he gave a nervous laugh. "You're not serious?"

"What? You've seen ghosts, shapeshifters, flying saucers," Jack waved his hands expressively. "Yetis! And this is a step too far?"

"Well, of course, but-" He didn't even want to say the word, which was ridiculous. But that howl had bypassed his rational mind and gone straight for the primitive part, stirring up fears that he hadn't even known he'd had. Telling himself he was being absurd, Jock looked Jack in the eye and said, "You're talking about werewolves."

"Why not?"

"Because they're just a myth."

"Like vampires."

"Yes, like- Hang on. You're saying vampires exist?"

"The ULTIMA affair," Hugh said softly. "The bodies were drained of blood."

Jock had forgotten that, and he hadn't particularly wanted to be reminded. "Still. There was a perfectly rational explanation for how those people were transformed."

"And I'm sure there'll be one for this." Jack was moving now, heading for the door. To Jock's eye, he still looked to be staggering a little, but Jock also knew that there was no arguing with him when he was like this. "But right now, I'm more concerned with finding out what the hell werewolves are doing in a Scottish castle."

"You'd prefer them in London?" Hugh grumbled as he and Jock trailed after Jack. He had, Jock noticed, left his jacket behind.

* * *

Their luck was never going to hold forever, but Jock had hoped it would last further than the top of the stairs. Fortunately, Jack was apparently feeling a lot better, because he met the man with an elbow to the face, knocking him to the ground before he could cry out.

"Looks like we got ourselves a prisoner," Jack said, with a gleam in his eye that made Jock distinctly uncomfortable. "And put that thing away," he added, nodding to Jock's gun. "The last thing we need is to start firing shots all over the place."

Jock's jacket was sodden and out of shape, and the weight of the gun nearly pulled it from his shoulders. Swearing, Jock went to tuck it into his belt, only to find that he hadn't put it back on after taking it off to sleep. Hugh came to his rescue, lifting the gun out of his hands and shoving it through his own belt before going to help Jack. Together, they dragged the unconscious man along to the dining room, while Jock brought up the rear, glancing over his shoulder from time to time. There didn't seem to be anyone down there, just like when he'd been prowling around earlier on. It had been useful then, but now it was starting to bother him. Because if no one was around in the main house, where were they all?

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he followed the others into the dining room, and shut the door firmly behind him. Hugh was lighting one of the storm lamps again, while Jack tied their prisoner to a chair with one of the curtain ties.

"What are you going to do?" Jock asked, getting a shrug in reply.

"Ask him some questions." The tone was more or less what Jack sounded like when he was trying to sound innocent. Jock had yet to find it convincing.

"The ones I encountered earlier showed a distinct disinclination to be helpful."

"Maybe you just didn't ask the right questions. Or maybe you didn't ask them in the right way."

"You think you can persuade him?"

Jack shot him a dark look. "If you're going to start complaining at this point, you can go hunt down the werewolf yourself."

"You're still convinced it's a werewolf."

"Unless you have any better ideas."

Letting that go for the moment, Jock folded his arms. "Assuming it is, what do you plan to do?"

"Find the werewolf. Kill the werewolf."

"Up to your usual subtlety, then."

"What do you suggest?" Jack tied off the last knot, standing and mirroring Jock's posture, arms wrapped round his chest and chin lifted.

"Do you even know how to kill a werewolf?"

"I thought you didn't believe in werewolves."

"Jack." From the other end of the room, Hugh gave them both warning looks. "The Major's got a point. And I don't think his gun is loaded with silver bullets."

Jack deflated a little, looking away from Jock and unfolding his arms to rub at the back of his neck. When he looked back, some of the fierce energy was gone from his expression. "Sorry."

"It's that damn howl." Jock winced as the high, piercing call echoed through the house again. "It's got us all on edge."

Sparing a glance for Hugh, who seemed to back to his normal, placid self, Jack smiled ruefully. "Something like that. Look, I'll admit it's a fair point, but exactly what do you suggest we do instead?"

"Intelligence gathering." Relaxing a little himself, Jock frowned, thinking. "I haven't heard anyone except our friend here moving around the house, and he was probably coming to check on us. The only place we haven't been is the observatory tower, right at the far end of the North Wing. That must be where they are."

"Probably got a better view of the moon there," Jack said, leaning on the table in front of him. "What I don't get is why. Why is she doing this?"

"You're sure it was Sarah Harding?" It was hard to imagine the good looking young woman Jock remembered being mixed up in something like this. Even if she hadn't pulled the trigger herself, she'd let her men shoot Jack, and she'd been willing to let him die to further their cause, whatever that was. The conversation he'd heard in the hallway earlier echoed in his head, and he shivered as the next howl tore through the night. He hadn't known it was her at the time, but he'd heard the low intensity of her voice, the dedication that he associated with fanatics and madmen. Sarah Harding didn't fit well into that picture at all.

He repeated the conversation to the others, and Jack nodded. "If they miss tonight, they won't get another chance for a while. Which means we need to stop them now, before they disappear back to wherever they came from."

"_We are the children of the stars. We are the sons of the moon. We are the offspring of the dark. We walk in the light of the night._"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I think our friend has woken up." Turning, he went over to the bound man, crouching in front of him.

"_We are the sons of the moon. We are the offspring of the dark. We walk_-"

"Yeah, we got that bit." Jack shifted closer, peering up into the man's face. "What's your name?"

"I am a son of the moon."

Glancing at Hugh, Jock got a minute shake of the head in reply. At least he wasn't the only one in the dark here.

"What do you want?" As Jock watched, Jack got back to his feet, walking slowly away from the man as he spoke. "Tell me what you want and we won't hurt you."

"I am the offspring of the dark. You cannot harm me."

"Really?" Jack opened the sideboard, running his eyes over the contents, and Jock was about to step in, to say something and stop this, when a hand gripped his arm.

"Not yet," Hugh whispered, nodding to Jack, who was lifting something from the sideboard, hiding it in his hand as he turned back to his prisoner.

"If you tell me what I want to know, I won't hurt you."

"I walk in the light of night. I do not fear you."

"Maybe not." Jack grinned, slowly closing the distance between them. "But I think you fear this." He pressed his hand to the side of the man's face.

The man screamed. It was a terrible sound, quickly muffled by Jack's hand over his mouth, but Jock still glanced nervously towards the door. When he looked back towards the seated man, he swore under his breath. There was a long, angry red streak along the man's face, just visible under Jack's fingers. Jack was holding something gleaming in his other hand, which he dropped, quickly bringing his hands together and slamming them into the back of the screaming man's neck. The cry cut off abruptly.

"What the hell was that?" Swallowing hard, Jock came round the table to get a better look.

"I don't know what she's done, but if the whole werewolf thing doesn't work, it looks like Sarah could have a good career as a microbiologist." Jack straightened up, passing Jock the object he'd dropped. It was a thin silver knife. When Jock just returned it with a puzzled look, Jack sighed. "He's part wolf already, somehow. I'm assuming it's an infection of some kind, sort of makes him allergic to the silver."

"Can we get it out of him?" Hugh asked.

"Who knows." Lifting the man's head by his hair, Jack looked at the red mark. "It's pretty bad, I'd say. But what I want to know is how come he's not actually a werewolf?"

"He was not worthy enough."

Jock spun on his heel, cursing himself for stopping paying attention to the door. Behind him, Sarah Harding was watching them all with a thin, cruel smile. "You seem to have made a remarkable recovery, Jack. I'm impressed. Perhaps you will be worthy after all."

"To be turned into a monster?" Jack's voice was low and steady, almost calm. If you didn't know him.

One of the men standing with Sarah stirred, hands twisting round the stick he was holding, and she shook her head to stop him. "It's alright. They just don't understand."

"Then explain it to us. Sarah." Jock risked a step forwards, trying to see a trace of the woman he remembered. He'd only met her a few times, but right now, he'd take every chance he could get. "What are you doing?"

She considered him for a long moment, in which Jock felt uncomfortably like the prey in front of the hunter, then she said, "I can do much better than that, I can show you." She reached up to her throat, unfastening the cloak and its long hood. Then she gave them all a long, appraising look before sweeping out of the room, saying over her shoulder, "Bring them."

Jock hesitated as the men closed in, not sure whether they were going to try to fight their way out. The odds were nearly three to one against, but he didn't like the idea of just going quietly. Behind him, he heard Jack sigh, then something drop to the carpet. Glancing over his shoulder, Jock saw that Jack was holding up his hands, now empty of the silver knife, and was letting the men grab him and twist his arms behind his back. Hugh was being relieved of the gun, and when two of the others came towards Jock, he let them pull him towards the door.

"I don't know," Jack said, as they were dragged into the hallway and up the stairs. His voice was oddly conversational, and Jock tried to find that comforting. "People only ever want me for my body."

**Part Three**

_Love is something eternal, the aspect may change, but not the essence._

Vincent van Gogh

There were many reasons Hugh had joined Torchwood, not least of which was the large hole he'd literally stumbled across at the age of seventeen, with something glowing green at the bottom of it. There had also been the fact that he was just out of the army with a wife to support, and the pay was pretty good, considering. If he was honest, there was also the fact that every day he got to see a world that most people didn't even dream about.

Nowhere, in any of the recruitment speeches or training sessions, had anyone mentioned how often he was going to be tied up. Within six months of joining Torchwood, he'd known how to get knots undone behind his back, and the best way to free himself from large immovable objects. None of which was doing him much good right now. With a bit of movement, he could probably have undone the ropes holding him to the chair, but there was no way to do that without attracting the attention of the men guarding them. Beside him, Major Goody seemed to have reached the same conclusion, and was sitting back in his chair, just staring across the room at Jack.

They were at the top of the observatory tower, in a small room next to the one that housed the telescope, wood-panelled and lined with books and pictures. The storm had nearly blown itself out, and the windows had been thrown open, letting in the dying wind and the occasional flurry of raindrops. Now that the clouds were clearing, the moonlight was filling the room, waxing and waning as the clouds passed across the sky. By the window, catching the best of the light, was a large square cage, the height of a man, with thick iron bars and a wooden base.

While Hugh and the Major had been given front row seats, the wolf-men – as Hugh was starting to think of them – had stripped Jack of his shirt and trousers and shoved him inside the cage, tying his wrists to the bars above his head. Then they retreated, leaving the cage open at the front, and simply waited.

There was no clock in here no way to mark the passing of time. Hugh tried counting his heartbeats, but they were pounding too fast to measure seconds by, and in the end he gave up, fixing his eyes on Jack instead. The wolf-men seemed to have lost interest in their prisoners, turning towards the window and lifting their heads every time the wolf howled. It sounded closer now.

As time went on, Jack's head sank lower on his chest, and he seemed to be hanging more heavily from the roof of the cage. Whatever energy surge had possessed him after his most recent resurrection had passed, and Hugh knew he'd be weak and shaking for a while yet. As time went on, Jack closed his eyes, sagging as far as he could in the ropes. Hugh began to carefully pull on his own bonds, trying to earn himself just a little bit of slack.

He stopped as the door opened and Sarah Harding came in, carrying a small wooden box which she placed on a table by the cage. Although he'd never spoken to her, Hugh knew that Jack liked and respected her, or at least he had done. This woman didn't resemble the mental image that Hugh had built. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, giving her face a taut, pinched appearance, and her skin was deathly pale in the moonlight.

To Hugh's relief, when Jack lifted his head again, there was a spark of defiance in his eyes. He looked tired, uncomfortable from spending however long it was with his arms tied above his head, but he stood a little straighter as Sarah looked at him.

"You know," he said, in that matter of fact voice that he saved for the most dangerous situations, "if you wanted me to take my clothes off, you could have just asked. I don't normally need much persuading."

Sarah didn't say anything, staring at him for another long moment before going back to the table and opening the box. Her body blocked Hugh's view of what she was doing, and when he caught Jack's eye, Jack shrugged as best he could, his gaze holding Hugh's, questioning. Hugh shook his head, trying to say that he was fine, and shouldn't Jack really be worried about the mad woman who had him tied up in a cage? Some of that must have come across, because the corner of Jack's mouth twitched and he tilted his head, half-shrugging again.

Finishing what she was doing, Sarah turned back to the cage, holding something in her right hand that reflected the light.

"You should be honoured, Jack," she said, and her voice was low and gentle, almost tender. "Most of the men here have only been given a weaker version of the lupine strain. This was my father's work, refining the strain, diluting it so that it enhanced rather than transformed. We've found that it consumes people otherwise, leaving nothing of the host behind."

Outside the wolf howled again, and Hugh shivered.

"Is that what happened to that poor thing?" Jack asked. "Who was he, before you killed him?"

"He isn't dead. Far from it. And you should save your pity for yourself." The object she was holding caught the light again, and Hugh could see now that it was a scalpel, small and gleaming and probably very sharp. He started to pull at the ropes around his wrists again.

"We find that the strain has more success in weaker subjects," Sarah was saying, as she ducked her head and walked into the cage, tilting the blade to catch the light." It's better if it doesn't have to compete with the body's own defences as much."

"So much for your all-powerful wolf, then." He was trying, but it was hard for even Jack to joke when someone had a sharp blade at his throat, and his voice sounded tight.

His words seemed to stop Sarah for a moment, and she tilted her head to the side. "I don't think you understand. We are not entirely the same as the primitive wolf-worshippers who invaded this castle a hundred years ago. They thought the wolf would rule this world. They didn't realise that the wolf is the foot soldier, a tool to be used. For all his vision, Father never really understood that."

Her voice was tender, fond even. Hugh wondered just how long she had spent with this 'vision', how much time she had devoted to this work. Enough to warp her mind, obviously. He'd dealt with fanatics before, and knew there would be no reasoning with her, no argument that would dissuade her. He could hear the madness lurking under the calm words as she went on, "He never understood that we can use these abilities, that we can improve on humanity. Those who are strong enough, we can transform completely. Others, we just give a limited advantage to."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. Only one other subject has received the full wolf. Once we have enough, we will be ready for more subjects, and more."

"And then?"

Sarah was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, Hugh could hear the smile in her voice. "And then I will have an army."

"If you can control it."

"I think you can see that I can control it." She turned, sweeping a hand round to indicated the wolf-men standing around the room. Her eyes were wide and dark, and when they fell on Hugh, he could see the madness in them.

She glanced towards the table, then turned back to Jack, lifting the scalpel to place it against his skin.

"That's the Koh-i-noor box," Major Goody said, his voice surprisingly calm and even, although it had still made Hugh jump. "It was Queen Victoria's things you were after."

"Impressive. I didn't think Torchwood had the brains to figure that out." Still holding the scalpel, Sarah took a few steps closer, coming out of the cage and giving the Major an unpleasant smile. "So tell me, Major Goody, what else does Torchwood know?"

"We don't know why you needed it. We don't know what was in it that was so important to you. The Koh-i-noor is safe."

She laughed. "I'm afraid we were after something much more valuable than that. Not all of Her Majesty's visits were peaceful, and after one in particular, she left something behind. Just a few drops of blood on a handkerchief, not enough for most people to do anything with"

"But your father managed."

"Yes. The wolf survives. A single cell is enough, was more than enough for him, especially with all the alien equipment that Torchwood so kindly provided for him. But the fool hid it before he died. It took me months of searching to find what I needed."

"Needed for what?"

Hugh jumped at the sound of Jack's voice, having become preoccupied with Sarah, her hypnotic eyes and calm, determined manner. There was something haunting about her, and he understood how she had drawn others to her to help her in her cause. When she turned away, the spell was broken, and he shook his head, pulling his attention back to the present, back to what mattered. Back to Jack.

"The wolf is a tool for power," Sarah said, going back into the cage. "Nothing more, nothing less. A hundred years ago, they thought to seize it through accepted channels. They thought that power was like a game of chess, and if they took the queen, they would have it all. I don't intend to limit myself like that. But first, I need my army." She slid a hand into Jack's hair to hold him still and set the scalpel against his throat. "It is only when the moon is full that we can create the pure breed. With your apparently remarkable abilities, I expect you will make an equally remarkable wolf."

Hugh didn't see the scalpel move. Sarah was standing between him and Jack, so all he could see was Jack's face contorting into a grimace of pain and her hand moving down from his neck across his chest, then up to his bound hands. When she stepped away, out of the cage, Hugh could finally see the blood. It ran down Jack's body, coating his chest and arms. She must have made half a dozen cuts, and known where to make them. Most of the cuts were shallow, long stripes that were dripping red slowly, but the one on his wrist was different, the blood spurting in great arcs, bright red and gushing, and Hugh knew she'd cut into an artery. A line of blood ran down Jack's arm, dripping from his elbow, much too fast. Hugh had no idea how long it took someone to bleed to death like that, but he was guessing it wasn't long. He pulled harder at his ropes, ignoring the sting as they cut into his wrists.

The room was silent, apart from the sound of Jack's harsh breathing. Hugh had seen men bleed to death before, from bullet wounds or knife wounds, not to mention a dozen alien causes, and he knew it was messy and painful until the body went into shock, shutting itself down in an attempt to survive. He kept his eyes fixed on Jack's face, so that if he looked up, Hugh would be able to see into his eyes. At the same time, Hugh kept his hands moving, the roughness of the rope and the burn against his wrist keeping him grounded, stopping him from acting on any of the hundred impulses that were filling his head so much that he could hardly think. He wanted – needed – Jack to look up, to reassure him or even to look for reassurance. Any kind of reaction was better than this, the way Jack kept his head down, panting hard as the blood ran down his body, pooling at his feet.

After a moment, Sarah retreated from the cage, replacing the scalpel on the table and retrieving something else from the wooden box. She waited for one of the guards to lock the cage before holding up a small vial.

"The strain can live outside the body quite well, but we've found that this is the safest delivery method. I would ask you if you have any last words, but this isn't the end." She threw the vial at Jack's feet, where it smashed, releasing a thin stream of smoke that curled up around Jack's body. "This is just the beginning."

She and all the guards stepped back, although the smoke was spreading upwards rather than outwards, becoming more diffuse as it rose. Inside the cage, Jack lifted his head as though trying to get away from it, and Hugh could see the cuts on his neck more clearly now. Jack was pale, and his eyes seemed huge and bright, almost glowing against the dark circles under them. Hugh held the gaze for as long as he could, until Jack writhed and threw his head back, eyes closing in obvious pain. Hugh wanted to close his eyes as well, do anything to make this not be happening. But he wouldn't do that to Jack, wouldn't leave him to go through this alone, because however much it hurt him to watch, it was nothing compared to what Jack was going through. Everyone's attention was fixed on the cage, as Jack's body convulsed and shuddered, bending backwards as far as the ropes would let him.

Taking advantage of the moment, Hugh began to move again, twisting his wrists in their bonds, knowing there had to be a weak point somewhere. He finally shifted his attention to Sarah and the men around her, who appeared to be rapt by the scene in front of them. The anger and frustration threatened to overwhelm him again, and he had to stop, take a breath and push the feelings back. He needed to think before he acted, needed to focus. The only thing that would do them any good right now was getting free.

Hugh had rubbed his wrist almost raw by the time he had enough slack to turn it, really turn it in the tight loop of rope, and he resisted the urge to grin in triumph. His fingers fumbled with the knot, clumsy with pins and needles, and it took him three goes to begin to loosen it. He'd almost managed to get his hand free when Jack screamed.

No, he realised, his head snapping up to look. Jack had _howled_. From outside, he heard the echo of the wolf, as if replying to the unearthly sound. Just as suddenly, Jack hauled himself upright, his body still red and shining with blood, and his muscles straining against the ropes holding him to the cage. When he turned his face and opened his eyes, a chill ran down Hugh's spine.

Jack's eyes were black, solid and dark and utterly inhuman. As Hugh watched, his face began to contort, features changing and shifting, as though there was something under the surface, fighting to get out. The convulsions shook his body again, and he pulled harder on the ropes, almost lifting himself off his feet. A fresh wave of blood poured from the cut on his wrist, and the floor of the cage was stained with it.

Hugh had been distracted by Sarah and the others, so this time he kept his eyes on Jack even as his fingers pulled and tugged at the knots. One came free, and he grabbed at the rope, holding it in place. He needn't have worried, he noticed as he looked round; everyone was staring at Jack. In the brief moment that he'd looked away, something had changed, and when he turned back, he saw that Jack's whole body was contorting, while his face was morphing, growing and lengthening. His skin seemed to be getting darker, but when Hugh looked more closely, he saw that it was a fine layer of hair, thickening even as he watched.

He looked away, hating himself for it, but not wanting to see. If he told himself that he was doing the right thing, that he had work to do, that Jack needed him like this, not out of his mind with worry, then he could explain away at least some of the guilt. Reaching round behind his back, he started work on the other knots, listening for any sign that he'd been spotted. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the change in sounds from the cage, the whining and grunting that gradually grew in volume, so that he was braced this time when Jack howled. This time, the sound was truly inhuman.

Waiting until he'd got his other hand free, Hugh checked on the guards one last time, making sure they were still preoccupied, before turning towards the cage.

Jack was gone. It was impossible to tell that the creature staring out from behind the bars had once been human. At some point while Hugh had been turned away, it had burst the ropes holding it to the cage, and was now crouched on the floor, supporting itself on enormous clawed hands. Hugh looked into its eyes, trying to see some trace of the man he knew, and found himself staring only into darkness. He jumped instinctively as the creature threw itself at the bars of its cage, howling when they didn't give way.

From outside, the other wolf howled as well, the two cries echoing each other and triggering some basic instinct in Hugh. He wanted to run, to find somewhere to hide from this monster in front of him and ironically, of course, now that his hands were free, he could. While the guards were distracted, this was the perfect moment to act. Then the wolf settled back on its haunches, falling silent again and looking round the room, sniffing the air. Its attention settled on Hugh and the Major, and it shifted forwards a little, lifting its head thoughtfully. The gesture was so completely and utterly Jack that Hugh froze, his stomach clenching, watching as the creature moved again, tilting its head as it looked at him. It whined softly, dropping its head and shaking it, as though confused. Hugh gripped the ropes tighter, forcing his trembling hands to stay still. He couldn't give himself away now, however much it cost him.

It was almost a relief when Sarah stepped forwards, putting herself in the wolf's - Jack's - line of sight.

"Do you know where you are?" she asked. "Can you understand me?" She got a low growl for an answer, and she turned to the man beside her with a triumphant smile. "It worked. I was right. Bring the van round. We'll set up here for the time being."

"What if someone comes looking for them?" The man jerked his head towards Hugh and the Major.

Sarah turned, giving them both a slow smile. "Even werewolves have to eat. No one will find them. And by the time they can send anyone to look for them, it will be too late. Let's begin."

Hugh had half-expected them to unlock the cage and leave them to their fate, but two of the guards stayed behind. That was, Hugh knew, their first mistake. These men were more concerned with the cage than with their human prisoners, and one of them even went and crouched in front of the wolf, staring up into its eyes. Taking the opportunity, Hugh reached out towards Major Goody, without taking his eyes off the guards. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his own shoulder, and he turned to see the Major grinning at him, apparently having had the same idea. After a brief, silent conversation, Hugh got to his feet and slowly followed the Major across the room, waiting until he'd grabbed the standing guard around the throat before bearing the other man to the ground. He slammed his fist into the side of the man's face with a satisfying thud and felt the body under his go limp. Then he turned his attention to the cage.

He was still being watched. It wasn't true, he noticed, that the creature's eyes were wholly dark. The centre was rimmed with blue, bright and pale against the black. As he came closer, the wolf whined a little, moving its head from side to side, and when he lifted his hand to the bars of the cage, it shifted, stretching out its neck to sniff at his fingers. Hardly able to believe what he was doing, Hugh ignored the Major's sound of warning, and slowly reached out to touch the wolf's face.

The hair under his fingers was wiry and thick, and he moved his hand gently, stroking and smoothing the whorls of fur that covered the long snout. The wolf made a keening sound in the back of its throat, leaning into the touch and pushing closer, rubbing against him. Hugh kept on stroking slowly, taking long, deep breaths and forcing himself to stay calm. As long as he stayed calm, he could pretend that it was going to be alright, that he could do something about this, free the Jack who he knew had to be in there somewhere. For now, he focussed on the rhythmical movement of his hand, even though he no longer knew which of them he was comforting.

He was trying to get his cramped legs into a more comfortable position, when he caught a shift in mood, in the eyes that narrowed a fraction and the twitch of the nose so close to his face.

Acting on reflex, Hugh threw himself backwards as the wolf slammed into the bars of the cage, growling and snapping at him. When it couldn't get free, it lifted its head and howled, the noise almost unbearably loud at such close proximity. Below them, Hugh heard the other wolf raise its voice in reply.

"Are you alright?" Major Goody helped him up, and together they watched the wolf prowling the inside of the cage, looking for a way out.

"I'm fine." He didn't have anything worse than a few bruises and some rope burns on his wrists, and he couldn't take his eyes from the creature in the cage, watching it hurl itself against the bars. He shivered as it sat back and howled. No, not it.

Jack. He wouldn't let himself forget. In that moment, that had been Jack, not the wolf. Which meant that Jack was still in there somewhere. They just had to get him free.

"Hugh." Major Goody reached out and squeezed Hugh's shoulder, his tone suggesting that he'd been speaking for a while. "Hugh, I need to you focus."

"Sorry." Giving himself a shake, Hugh turned away from the cage, nodding when the Major gave him a questioning look. "What now?"

For answer, the Major lifted his hand, which was once again holding his gun. "I have five bullets left, and there's no reason not to fire them. They know we're here anyway. We take them out, quickly, alive or dead. Then we're going to ask Miss Harding how we reverse the process. Will that do?"

Despite the cold knot in the pit of his stomach, Hugh smiled. "It'll do nicely, sir." He carefully didn't ask the question that he knew they were both thinking, because there had to be a way to reverse this. There just had to.

* * *

It was not, Hugh decided, his best plan ever, although that was mostly because his best plans tended to involve him being heavily armed and the other man not being. The antique sword he'd retrieved from one of the store rooms was a step up from the lump of wood he'd been using earlier on, but not by much. He had a horrible feeling that it would break into rusty shards the moment he hit anyone with it, and the chances of it cutting through anything were small to minimal. Still, it was better than wandering the halls with no weapon at all.

By agreement, he was working his way down the North Wing, while Major Goody took the South. He'd just reached the ground floor when a sound made him freeze. Gun shots. Hurrying now, Hugh took the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop at the bottom and trying to work out which direction the noise had come from. His eye caught the dining room door, which was still half-open, and he headed towards it before he'd really had a chance to think. He was running on instinct and adrenaline now, the only way he could function past the gnawing worry that threatened to overtake him.

He'd barely set foot inside the room when he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned quickly, bringing the sword up just in time to fend off the man running towards him. A blow from the stout stick the man was carrying sent a cloud of dust flying up from the sword, but it didn't break, and Hugh was almost too surprised to follow up. Flexing his fingers on the hilt, he pushed hard, making his attacker step back a few paces. Not letting the man regain his balance, Hugh kept pressing forward, not attempting anything fancy, just trying to get the upper hand. He managed it almost by accident, slamming the hand guard into the man's fingers, hard enough that he dropped the stick. Still moving, Hugh thrust upwards, the sword connecting with bone and knocking the man out.

Hoping the noise hadn't attracted any attention, Hugh headed back into the dining room, and paused by the sleeping bags and blankets that still lay on the floor. Everything was just as they'd left it, looking so normal that it took a real effort to leave them and go over to the window. Normal was for later. Right now, he had work to do.

If he pulled the curtains back a fraction, he could see the yard outside, now lit by several powerful electric lights. He remembered what Sarah had said about staying here a while; they must have their own generator, somewhere. Another piercing howl made him wince, and he realised it hadn't come from upstairs, although an answering cry was echoing down from there. The noise had come from the back of the van.

In the better light, Hugh could see men carrying boxes from the vehicle to outbuildings on the other side of the yard, with Sarah standing in the doorway watching them, and occasionally saying something as they passed. There was no doubting who was in charge, and Hugh tightened his grip on the sword, hoping that she had a way to undo what she'd done. He didn't know if he could bring himself to hit, or even threaten a woman, but he had a feeling that, if pushed, he'd be prepared to find out.

Tearing himself away from the window, Hugh made a brief stop at the sideboard, then rummaged through their packs for supplies, including the spare gun that had been at the bottom of the food hamper, and headed out into the corridor. The man he'd hit earlier on was still lying on the floor, still apparently unconscious, and despite his first impulse, Hugh couldn't bring himself to shoot an unarmed man.

On the other hand, he didn't hesitate to shoot at the man in the doorway, who turned just a fraction too late to see him. Hugh had been aiming to wound, but he saw the anger in the man's eyes, the tense way that he started to close the distance between them. He also remembered what Sarah had said about a weaker strain of the wolf-serum and the red mark across Jack's prisoner's face. This time he let instinct and just a little of his anger take over as he fired. The man's head snapped back, and he fell to the ground, a small hole in the middle of his forehead. There had been so much death today, so many additions to the ghosts that haunted this place. Hugh tried not to shiver, thinking about how many more he might add to that number, trying not to think about the one death that had really mattered to him.

He knew he didn't have long, and he hurried to the doorway, looking out into the yard again. Several men were running in his direction, and he fired at them, not sure if he'd hit them, but hoping to at least slow them down. On the other side of the courtyard, he saw Sarah pull one of the men towards her, then push him in the direction of the van, following him after a moment. Frowning, Hugh fired again, hearing a yelp of pain as a reward. Two others were still coming towards him though, and he didn't have an endless supply of bullets, so he lowered the gun and stepped out of the doorway. The men were fast, faster than he'd expected, and he barely had a chance to raise his hands before the first was on him.

He got one good hit in, then someone grabbed him round the waist and bore him to the ground. There was thick mud everywhere, and he dug his hand into it, trying to get enough leverage to shift the heavy weight on his back. Someone pushed into the back of his neck and his elbow buckled, bearing him down again. He managed to turn his head enough that he didn't end up face down in the dirt, but it was a close thing. Panting, he got his hands under him again and pushed, feeling cold mud seep between his fingers as he shifted his shoulders. Then he was moving, turning onto his back and carrying his attacker with him.

As they turned, he tried to get free of the grip around his waist and the other on his neck, and so he didn't notice the man standing over him at first. Rolling again, his cheek hit the mud as he heard the stick come down behind him with a wet thud. He couldn't shake the grip of the first man, who was slowly squeezing the breath out of him as he struggled in the mire. Just as he was on the point of considering how far playing dead would get him, he heard more gunshots and another thud of something crashing into the mud. His breath came rushing back as the body above his went limp, releasing its crushing hold on his ribs. Elbowing it off him, he took a few deep breaths before getting to his feet.

Major Goody was standing a few feet away, watching him carefully, his gun held loosely at his side. "Alright there, Jones?" he asked, also looking as though he was struggling for air.

"Fine, thank you, sir. You?"

"A little out of condition, but I expect I'll live. Where now?"

"Over there." Hugh nodded to the outbuildings, just in time to see the door slam shut. "Er..." he started to say, then he heard the low growling which he had assumed was the wind or the generator that was powering the electric lights, but which was now growing in volume. It was, he realised, coming from the back of the van. Before he could say anything, there was a scratching, scrabbling noise, and the wolf leapt to the ground in front of them.

This was the one they'd been hearing all evening, the one that had answered every howl Jack had made, and it lifted its head to the moon again now, making Hugh's ears ring with the sheer noise. Above him, he heard another howl, and something that sounded like metal under stress. There was no time to think about that, though, because the wolf here on the ground was sniffing the air, turning its long muzzle towards them, its eyes almost shining in the clear moonlight. It was darker than the wolf that Jack had become, fur thicker and more tangled, and it snarled at them, showing long, yellowing teeth. Beside him, Hugh felt the Major stiffen, then reach out for his shoulder, trying to push him back.

"Jack will never forgive me if I let anything happen to you," he muttered, when Hugh gave him a puzzled look.

"I think whatever happens to one of us is going to happen to both." Reluctant as he was to take his eyes from the wolf, Hugh lifted his eyes to the house, trying to find the right window. He didn't resist as the Major began to pull him backwards, retreating as far as they could in the confined space. The wolf was between them and the door into the house, and the gate behind them was still shut. There wouldn't be nearly enough time to get it open, even if it would do them any good.

It was strange, Hugh thought absently, but he'd stood here so many times before, so many times when he was sure his luck had finally run out, and just about every time, Jack had been standing beside him, ready with some insane idea or reckless plan that somehow saved their skins. Some part of Hugh was oddly glad that Jack wasn't here, didn't have to see this, as he tried not to stumble in the ankle deep mud and looked into the face of the animal that was about to kill him.

Everything happened too fast for Hugh to keep track of. He could see the wolf, getting ready to leap, then there was a terrible splintering noise and the yard filled with shards of falling glass. Hugh raised his hands to protect his face, looking upwards just in time to see a large shape falling from the top of the observatory tower. He took a step backwards instinctively, raising a hand against the splashes of mud as the creature landed in the centre of the yard, turning and snarling at the other wolf before throwing itself at it.

The Major still had hold of Hugh's arm, and he dragged them both along, trying to circle round to the door of the house again. The two wolves were locked together, snapping and biting and turning over and over, neither able to get the upper hand. Vaguely, Hugh wondered if they'd actually be able to kill each other, if it was true that only silver could kill these creatures. If it was, would they be like this forever, always fighting and neither able to win?

As they circled, Hugh saw a flicker of movement from the van, and he tugged at the Major's sleeve, pointing towards where Sarah Harding was crouched. Apparently she hadn't had time to get herself inside before the wolf got out. Together, he and the Major dashed as best they could across the yard, and before he really knew was he was doing, Hugh had grabbed the startled woman, pushing her against the side of the van.

"Tell me how to stop this," he shouted, barely recognising his own voice. Sarah made a low, snarling noise, baring her teeth at him and trying to break free. Hugh gripped her arms tighter, shoving her hard enough that her head hit the metal behind her. He didn't care. "If we don't do something, then the winner is going to come for us."

She shook her head, struggling against his grip. "Let me go. I can stop them."

"Can you?" Turning her, Hugh twisted one of her arms behind her back and spun round so that they were facing the fighting animals. "That's good, because when they come for us, I'm letting them have you first."

Unable to get free without breaking her arm, Sarah shrank back as the snarling got louder, the fight carrying the two wolves closer towards them.

Beside them, Hugh heard the Major's voice, low and calm. "Do you really think you can control that?"

"I..."

Hugh tightened his grip again as she struggled against him, not caring if he hurt her. It frightened him a little that he didn't, but the fear was overridden by his anger, and he forced her to take a step forwards. She pushed back against him, her earlier bravado beginning to crumble as she shook her head. Shifting his hands a little, Hugh took another step towards the fighting animals, having to half-carry the trembling woman.

"No," she whispered. "This isn't right."

"You did this." Hugh's mouth was by her ear, so he knew she could hear him, although his voice wasn't much more than a soft growl. "You can put it right. Tell me."

The trembling grew worse, and she shook her head again, cringing back towards him. Then, all at once, Hugh felt her resolve snap, and the body against his sagged as she gave in.

"Front of the van," she sad, almost sobbing.. "There's a rifle. Two silver bullets."

"That'll kill them?"

"It's the only thing that will. Please." She was crying freely now, going so limp that Hugh was the only thing holding her up. Despite his first instinct to let her drop into the mud, he made himself walk slowly backwards, hearing the Major opening the van door.

He had to lift her into the back of the van, leaving her in a crumpled heap, still crying and shaking her head, although he didn't know whether that was from anger or terror. Shutting the door on her, he went to see how the Major was getting on. Before he could get there, he heard a cry of triumph, and the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked. When the Major turned, he was holding a long rifle, the metal gleaming in the moonlight.

"Which one are you going to shoot?" Hugh asked, pressing himself back against the van. His legs were suddenly having trouble holding him up.

"Both if I can." The Major's voice was slightly muffled as he sighted down the barrel.

"With two bullets?" Hugh took a deep, shaky breath, feeling the night catching up with him. "If I might suggest, sir? Aim carefully."

"Thank you, Jones, I had thought of that."

The two wolves were still swiping at each other, and Hugh could see a long scratch down one of their backs. He had no idea how the Major was going to hit either of them when they were moving so fast. They fell to the ground again, tumbling over and over, coming to a crashing stop at the wall of the house, where one of them seemed to get the upper hand. It stood over the fallen body of the other, lifting its head to the sky and howling in what Hugh assumed was triumph, and as it did so, Major Goody fired.

The shot went wide. One of the panes of glass on the ground floor shattered, and the wolf's head snapped round to them. It howled again, then began to lope towards them, gathering speed. Hugh pressed further back against the van, resisting the urge to close his eyes. A second later, he was glad he hadn't, because the rifle cracked again, the sound splitting the night.

For a horrible moment, Hugh thought this shot had missed as well, and he got ready to grab the Major and pull him out of the way. He wasn't sure until the wolf shuddered, falling to the ground so quickly that the sudden silence was almost deafening. Hugh stood utterly still, trying to start breathing normally again. In front of him, Major Goody's shoulders slumped, and he lowered the rifle.

It wasn't over, though. Not yet confident that his legs were up to it, but needing to know, Hugh slowly walked towards the body in the middle of the yard, staring as it started to shift and change, the reverse of the transformation he'd witnessed earlier in the night. The fur seemed to melt away, revealing pale skin underneath, and a shock of blond hair. When he reached down and turned the body over, he saw it was that of a young man, with a bullet wound just above his right eye. He didn't know whether that was better or worse than it being Jack.

Jack. The dark shape of the other wolf was still lying against the wall of the house, caked in mud and blood. Its chest was rising and falling, but otherwise it didn't move as Hugh came closer. He stopped a few feet away, crouching down and trying to see its face. The dark eyes were closed, and there was a long gash running from one ear all the way down to the end of its nose.

As Hugh watched, one eye twitched a fraction, and relief surged through him, draining away again as the wolf growled, lifting its head and turning towards him. He'd been hoping that Jack would still be in there, that they'd be able to do this peacefully and quietly. Instead, Hugh knew he was looking at the wolf, and it was hurting. He shuffled backwards, giving himself more room and carefully putting one hand into a mud-stained pocket. Jack still needed him, and he wasn't going to let him down now.

The wolf seemed to be gathering its strength, starting to move with more purpose, trying to get to its feet. Deciding that he needed more space, Hugh tried to step backwards without standing up properly, finding that his feet had become embedded in the thick mud, so that he couldn't lift them. He fell before he could catch himself, landing on his back and losing his breath again.

He looked up into the face of the wolf. It was staring down at him, as though not sure what it was meant to do. At such close proximity, he could smell the musky scent, feel its breath on his skin. Strangely, he wasn't afraid, not anymore. He just couldn't be, not of Jack, even like this. It was the wolf he was afraid of, and he was ready for it this time.

His fingers closed on the silver knife that he'd picked up in the dining room, sliding it out of his pocket as the wolf lifted its face to the moon and howled. As it stood, body stretched and eyes closed, Hugh lifted his hand and thrust the knife into its belly. Almost before he'd finished the stroke, he was rolling away, barely making it in time as the wolf fell to its knees. The howl cut off, then rose again, in pain this time, and the huge claws pawed at the hilt just visible in the dark fur. Finally, the sound faded, and the wolf collapsed, lying still just as the other had done.

All was silent for a long moment, and Hugh could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, every breath rasping in his dry throat. There was blood on his hand, and he started to wipe it off automatically, but there was no part of him that didn't seem to be coated in mud. Staggering, he got to his feet, not taking his eyes from the prone form. He couldn't remember how long it had taken last time, how long before the human had reappeared. It felt like forever. As he forced his feet to move through the clinging mud, he realised that he was shivering, although his head felt hot and light. Killing Jack twice in one night must have that effect on him. He dug his nails into his palms as he came closer to the body, as he felt the hysteria welling up inside him. He'd let it out later, when it was safe. When he knew it was over.

Major Goody came slowly over, walking carefully and still holding the rifle. He stopped a few yards away and cleared his throat. "I've put Sarah in with the others, barred the door from the outside. They're not going anywhere."

"Good." Hugh dropped to his knees beside the body of the wolf, waiting for any sign of change. How long had it been? His watch had been one casualty of the fight, but he was sure it had been too long.

"Jones." Looking up, Hugh saw that the Major had come closer, hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. "_Hugh_. You did the right thing."

"I know." He'd done what Jack would have wanted. Strangely, as he tried to wipe some of the blood from his palm on a patch of shirt, he was remembering giving in to Jack earlier on, the feel of cloth under his hand and the sudden convulsion that had swept through Jack's body, replaced by a stillness that was worse. It had worked out alright, that time. He'd trusted Jack, and it had worked out alright.

He was still trying to brush at least some of the caked-on mud and blood from his hands when it started, so slowly that he nearly didn't notice. Then the black fur was receding, transforming back into human skin, and the body was growing smaller, losing the hulking mass and changing back into Jack. Moving so fast he almost fell, Hugh grabbed a bare shoulder, turning Jack over and wiping enough mud away for him to pull the knife out of his stomach. The wound didn't bleed, and Hugh watched as it sealed itself, flesh closing over the spot until there was no trace of it left.

Jack's first breath, as ever, came as a shuddering gulp, and he thrashed for a moment, eyes wide and unfocussed. Then the Major was kneeling on Jack's other side, and together they helped him to sit up, Hugh slid behind him, just like before, cradling the shivering body against his own. Jack coughed for a moment, then tipped his head back against Hugh's shoulder, and Hugh could feel the tension draining out of his muscles.

"I really hate that," Jack whispered, and passed out.

**Epilogue**

Everything had gone blurry, as though he was watching an out of focus film. Backwards. Jack remembered the cold, remembered clinging mud and voices calling his name from too far away for him to answer. That had come after the searing pain and a different kind of chill, one that had been from inside as much as out, accompanied by the sensation of everything fading to black and white, then just to black.

He felt other things, the scratch of a blanket against his skin, the sensation of movement that jarred his fragile nerves, hands gripping his wrists, pulling and manipulating his body when all he wanted to do was turn over and sleep. He tried to fight them off, but they held him easily, saying his name and soothing him until he gave in, letting himself be moved, sinking into the steady back and forth that was almost comforting. Eventually the movement resolved itself into the rocking of a car, driving over rough roads. Jack woke up enough to know that he was lying across the back seat, held tightly in someone's arms. When he tried to sit up, a voice said in his ear, "Just stay still, would you?" and he recognised Hugh's voice.

"You let Jock drive?" he mumbled, not quite able to get his mouth to work properly. He must have been understood though, because Hugh gave a snort of laughter that Jack felt as much as heard, a warm puff of air in his ear.

"After you hit him on the nose when he was trying to get your jumper on, I suggested he let me do the dangerous work." Hugh squeezed a little tighter, shifting on the too-narrow seat. "How do you feel?"

That wasn't an easy one to answer, and Jack tried to think. He hurt, with an all-over ache that seemed to go down to his very bones. He couldn't seem to put two thoughts together in a straight line, and he was distracted before he could answer by the feeling of his bare feet against the material of the car seat, sort of squeaky but soft as well, giving way under his weight as the car bounced over something on the road.

Gradually, he became aware that Hugh was saying his name again.

"I'm here," he said, managing to lift his hands and wrap them around Hugh's, which were clasped across his chest. "I'm still here."

"Just about."

Jack drifted gently, feeling Hugh's breath stir his hair, and hearing Jock talking from the front seat, probably complaining about the state of the roads. They stopped once or twice, and he heard other voices, people he couldn't identify. He only stirred properly when Hugh moved out from behind him, laying him down gently on the seat and letting in a cold blast of air as he opened the car door. Jack started to protest, but a hand pressed him back down and another stroked lightly over his cheek.

"It's alright. Go back to sleep." And because Hugh normally knew what he was talking about, Jack did.

They made him stand when they reached Dundee, and he found that his legs just about worked well enough for him to make it to the train, one arm slung over Hugh's shoulders, while Jock gripped the other tightly, holding him upright. He dozed through the journey to Edinburgh, walking a little more steadily when they changed trains, and collapsing gratefully onto the bunk in the tiny cabin of the sleeper. A hand brushed lightly over his face again, and he tried to turn towards it, but he didn't even have the energy for that. Above him, he heard Hugh give a snort of laughter.

"Honestly, you just don't know when to give in, do you?" He said something in Welsh that Jack didn't catch, gentle and almost inaudible, and Jack smiled, letting the words wash over him as he sank back into sleep.

He woke feeling groggy but rested, although his head was still sore. It was daytime, although the light in the cabin was tinged orange and Jack guessed it was probably early morning or late afternoon. Opening his eyes, he turned his head enough to see Jock sitting on the opposite bunk, arms folded and head nodding.

"Jock?" Jack tried to say, almost choking on the word. His throat was ridiculously dry. The sound was enough though, and Jock stirred, looking up and across at him.

"Hang on," he said, leaning over and producing a thermos from under the seat. "Jones left you some coffee. He thought you might need it."

Of course he had. Jack's hands were shaking pretty badly, made worse by the motion of the train, and he let Jock help him with the thin plastic cup. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted. As the warmth spread through him, he sat back and closed his eyes again.

"How long?"

"On this train? A few hours. We left Torchwood House yesterday morning, as soon as it was light. I contacted Torchwood One from the village. They're sending a team. We stopped there for a while, had something to eat, Jones found something to wear that wasn't covered in mud, put you in some clothes and then we set off again."

Jack nodded, trying to process the timings. "When did I hit you?"

"Jones told you about that, did he?" Jock gave a snort of laughter. "Back at the pub, when you took a particular dislike to the jumper he'd chosen for you." Jock paused, and Jack opened his eyes a slit. His friend looked tired, eyes rimmed with dark circles and shoulders drooping. Still, he managed a rueful smile. "You were pretty out of it, Jack."

"I know. I'm still sorry, by the way."

"Apology accepted." They sat in silence for a while, and Jack listened to the rumbling of the track, feeling the steady vibrations travelling up from the wheels, through the side of the train behind him. It was rhythmic and comforting, keeping him grounded as his mind wandered. At last, Jock cleared his throat, pulling him back to the present. "Jack. I need to know, we'll have to turn in a report on this. How much do you remember?"

_There was pain, bright and flaring, seizing his whole body and making him scream in agony. There was fear, sheer, pure terror as he felt himself lose control, as his mind slipped away and his body was given over to something _other_. There was darkness, seeming to stretch on forever, until he woke up to coldness and warmth, the ground beneath him and Hugh beside him, around him._

"Not much," he said, swallowing hard. "It all gets a bit blurry in the middle."

"I'm sure it'll come back to you." Jack couldn't tell whether Jock believed him or not, but he seemed willing to let the matter drop for now.

Stretching a little, Jack asked, "What happened to Sarah and the others?"

"The caretaker from the village is keeping an eye on them until we can get a retrieval team there. And Peter's going to supervise emptying the rest of the house to Glasgow. We can't have something like this happening again."

"Definitely not." Jack shivered. "If they need someone to throw away the key on those guys, you tell them to call me."

"I'm sure Torchwood will think of something." Jock's tone was neutral, and Jack decided not to ask, not yet. But he had his own suggestions, if anyone asked for them.

Carefully, and swaying a little with the movement of the train, Jock got to his feet. "I should go and wake Jones. The only way I could make him get some rest was to promise to fetch him when you were back with us." He looked down, an expression on his face that Jack couldn't quite place, somewhere between relief and concern and understanding. "He was worried about you."

"I was worried about me." It didn't come out as lightly as he'd intended, but Jock smiled anyway.

"I'll go wake Jones up."

Left alone, Jack stared at the ceiling, trying not to think too hard. For one thing, it made his head hurt. If he started trying to remember, to worry about what had happened in that missing patch of time, he'd probably drive himself mad. Still, it wasn't easy to ignore the flashes of memory, the moment when thought had evaporated and instinct had taken over. It had been...exhilarating.

He jumped when the door opened, looking up to see Hugh coming in, balancing a plate and a mug of something steaming against the rolling movement of the train. Setting both on the tiny table by the window, Hugh sat down on the spare bed, watching Jack carefully. He looked tired.

"Did you sleep at all?" Jack asked, not sure if that was the right way to break the silence, but needing to say something. What were his other options? _Sorry I nearly killed you? Sorry I made you kill me? Again?_

Hugh shrugged. "A little. I brought you some breakfast." He nodded to the table, and Jack smiled. A sandwich and a cup of coffee. Some things would never change.

"Thanks. Look, Hugh." He cleared his throat, trying to work out what came next, and settling for, "I'm really sorry." There was usually something that he needed to apologise for.

Shaking his head, Hugh retrieved the thermos from under the seat and poured himself a mug of coffee. "Not your fault."

"Not all of it. But other things, things I asked you to do." Running out of words, Jack forced himself to sit up properly so he could look Hugh in the eye. "I'm sorry."

Hugh held Jack's gaze for a long moment, then said, "It comes with the territory, doesn't it?" He shrugged again, draining most of his coffee in one go. Putting the cup down, he raised an eyebrow at Jack. "So. Are you going to eat your breakfast, or not? Because if you're not..."

"I'm eating." Jack quickly picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite. "Thanks," he said indistinctly.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." But Hugh was smiling as he said it. "And slow down. You'll choke yourself, and then what would I tell Major Goody?"

"Death by sandwich." Swallowing, Jack grinned and reached for his own cup. "Sounds terrible."

"That probably depends on the sandwich."

Jack had to put the sandwich back on the plate so that he didn't drop it as he laughed. Across the cabin, Hugh shook his head, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bunk.

"If you don't mind," he said, putting his now-empty cup on the floor, "some of us haven't been asleep for the past twenty-four hours while everyone else did the work."

"I'll try to keep it down."

"See that you do."

Jack watched as Hugh closed his eyes, feeling the relief settle over him, the relief of everything back where it should be, as it should be. If he let himself, he could still hear the howl of the wolf, feel the strength and primal force of it running through his body. He could see the world as the wolf did, in terms of hunter and prey, power and weakness. If he let himself.

He wouldn't let it win. Carefully, he got off of his bunk, leaning over to slide the bolt home on the door before pushing at Hugh's side until he turned over, grumbling, to make room for Jack to climb in next to him. It was a tight fit, and Jack wrapped an arm around Hugh, pulling him close and getting as comfortable as he could on the small pillow. He took a deep breath, smelling soap and coffee and the indefinable something underlying them, that his still too-sharp senses told him was _human_, was _Hugh_, was _home_.

Hugh shifted, half-asleep, and Jack let himself relax properly, leaning into Hugh's warmth and letting the sound of his steady breathing and the rocking of the train lull him to sleep.

 


End file.
